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CRAINOUEBILLE 


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CRAINQUEBILLE 


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Published  in  U.  S.  A.,  1922 

by 

DoDD,  Mead  and  Company,  Inc. 


PBCNTKO  IK  U.  B.  A. 


VAIL-IALLOU    COM^ANV 

••■••HAMrOII  A«0  ntW  TQH* 


CoUegO 
Libracy 

PQ 

13154 


TO 

ALEXANDRE    STEINLEN 

AND  TO 

LUCIEN     GUITRY 

WHO,  THE  FORMER  IN  A  SERIES  OF 
ADMIRABLE  DRAWINGS,  THE  LATTER 
IN  A  FINE  DRAMATIC  CREATION, 
HAVE  INVESTED  WITH  A  TRAGIC 
GREATNESS  THE  HUMBLE  FIGURE 
OF  MY  POOR  COSTERMONGER 


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NOTE 
The  section  entitled  "Riquef  forms   Chapter  II 
of  "Monsieur  Bergeret  a  Paris''  and  is  here  included 
as  an  introduction  to  Riquefs  "Meditations." 


CONTENTS 

CRAINQUEBILLE  i 

PUTOIS  47 

RIQUET  75 

THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET  85 

THE  NECKTIE  93 

THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES  103 

EMILE  117 

ADRIENNE  BUQUET  127 

THE  INTAGLIO  141 

LA  SIGNORA  CHIARA  161 

UPRIGHT  JUDGES  167 

THE  OCEAN  CHRIST  177 

JEAN  MARTEAU  187 

I.    A  Dream  1 89 

II.    The  Law  is  dead  but  the  Judge  is  living  196 

MONSIEUR  THOMAS  205 

A  SERVANT'S  THEFT  217 
EDMEE,  OR  CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED       227 


CRAINQUEBILLE 


CRAINQUEBILLE 

I 

N  every  sentence  pronounced  by  a 
Judge  In  the  name  of  the  sovereign 
people,  dwells  the  whole  majesty  of 
justice.  The  august  character  of 
that  justice  was  brought  home  to 
Jerome  CrainqueblUe,  costermonger,  when,  accused 
of  having  insulted  a  policeman,  he  appeared  in  the 
police  court.  Having  taken  his  place  in  the  dock, 
he  beheld  In  the  imposing  sombre  hall  magistrates, 
clerks,  lawyers  in  their  robes,  the  usher  wearing  his 
chains,  gendarmes,  and,  behind  a  rail,  the  bare 
heads  of  the  silent  spectators.  Hej_himselfj_oc- 
cupied  a  raised  seat,  as  if  some  sinister  honour  were, 
conferred  on  the  accused  by  his  appearance  before 
the  magistrate.  At  the  end  of  the  hall,  between 
two  assessors,  sat  the  President  Bourriche.  The 
palm-leaves  of  an  officer  of  the  Academy  decorated 
his  breast.  Over  the  tribune  were  a  bust  repre- 
senting the  Republic  and  a  crucifix,  as  if  to  indicate 
that  all  laws  divine  and  human  were  suspended  over 
Crainquebille's  head.     Such  symbols  naturally  in- 

3 


4  CRAINQUEBILLE 

spired  him  with  terror.  Not  being  gifted  with  a 
philosophic  mind,  he  did  not  inquire  the  meaning 
of  the  bust  and  the  crucifix;  he  did  not  ask  how 
far  Jesus  and  the  symbolical  bust  harmonized  in 
the  Law  Courts.  Nevertheless,  here  was  matter 
for  reflection;  for,  after  all,  pontifical  teaching  and 
canon  law  are  in  many  points  opposed  to  the  consti- 
tution of  the  Republic  and  to  the  civil  code.  So  far 
as  we  know  the  Decretals  have  not  been  abolished. 
To-day,  as  formerly,  the  Church  of  Christ  teaches 
that  only  those  powers  are  lawful  to  which  it  has 
given  its  sanction.  Now  the  French  Republic 
claims  to  be  independent  of  pontifical  power. 
Crainquebille  might  reasonably  say: 

"Gentlemen  and  magistrates,  in  so  much  as  Presi- 
dent Loubet  has  not  been  anointed,  the  Christ, 
whose  image  is  suspended  over  your  heads,  repudi- 
ates you  through  the  voice  of  councils  and  of  Popes. 
Either  he  is  here  to  remind  you  of  the  rights  of  the 
Church,  which  invalidate  yours,  or  His  presence  has 
no  rational  signification." 

Whereupon  President  Bourriche  might  reply: 
"Prisoner  Crainquebille,  the  kings  of  France 
have  always  quarrelled  with  the  Pope.  Guillaume 
de  Nogaret  was  excommunicated,  but  for  so  trifling 
a  reason  he  did  not  resign  his  office.  The  Christ  of 
the  tribune  is  not  the  Christ  of  Gregory  VII  or  of 


CRAINQUEBILLE  5 

Boniface  VIII.  He  is,  if  you  will,  the  Christ  of 
the  Gospels,  who  knew  not  one  word  of  canon  law, 
and  had  never  heard  of  the  holy  Decretals." 

Then  Crainquebille  might  not  without  reason 
have  answered: 

"The  Christ  of  the  Gospels  was  an  agitator. 
Moreover,  he  was  the  victim  of  a  sentence,  which 
for  nineteen  hundred  years  all  Christian  peoples 
have  regarded  as  a  grave  judicial  error.  I  defy 
you  Monsieur  le  President,  to  condemn  me  in  His 
name  to  so  much  as  forty-eight  hours'  imprison- 
ment." 

But  Crainquebille  did  not  indulge  in  any  con- 
siderations either  historical,  political  or  social.  He 
was  wrapped  in  amazement.  All  the  ceremonial, 
with  which  he  was  surrounded,  impressed  him  with 
a  very  lofty  idea  of  justice.  Filled  with  reverence, 
overcome  with  terror,  he  was  ready  to  submit  to 
his  judges  in  the  matter  of  his  guilt.  In  his  own 
conscience  he  was  convinced  of  his  innocence;  but 
he  felt  how  insignificant  is  the  conscience  of  a  cos- 
termonger  in  the  face  of  the  panoply  of  the  law, 
and  the  ministers  of  public  prosecution.  Already 
his  lawyer  had  half  persuaded  him  that  he  was  not 
innocent. 

A  summary  and  hasty  examination  had  brought 
out  the  charges  under  which  he  laboured. 


X7 


II 


CRAINQUEBILLE'S  MISADVENTURE 

P  and  down  the  town  went  Jerome 
Crainquebille,  costermonger,  push- 
ing his  barrow  before  him  and  cry- 
ing: "Cabbages  1  Turnips!  Car- 
rots!" When  he  had  leeks  he  cried: 
"Asparagus!"  For  leeks  are  the  asparagus  of  the 
poor.  Now  It  happened  that  on  October  20,  at 
noon,  as  he  was  going  down  the  Rue  Montmartre, 
there  came  out  of  her  shop  the  shoemaker's  wife, 
Madame  Bayard.  She  went  up  to  Crainquebille's 
barrow  and  scornfully  taking  up  a  bundle  of  leeks, 
she  said: 

"I  don't  think  much  of  your  leeks.     What  do 
you  want  a  bundle?" 

"Sevenpence  halfpenny,  mum,  and  the  best  in  the 
market!" 

"Sevenpence     halfpenny     for     three     wretched 
leeks?" 

And  disdainfully  she  cast  the  leeks  back  into  the 
barrow. 

Then  it  was  that  Constable  64  came  and  said  to 

Crainquebille: 

6 


CRAINQUEBILLE  7 

"Move  on." 

Moving  on  was  what  Cralnquebille  had  been  do- 
ing from  morning  till  evening  for  fifty  years.  Such 
an  order  seemed  right  to  him,  and  perfectly  in  ac- 
cordance with  the  nature  of  things.  Quite  pre- 
pared to  obey,  he  urged  his  customer  to  take  what 
she  wanted. 

"You  must  give  me  time  to  choose,"  she  retorted 
sharply. 

Then  she  felt  all  the  bundles  of  leeks  over  again. 
Finally,  she  selected  the  one  she  thought  the  best, 
and  held  it  clasped  to  her  bosom  as  saints  in  church 
pictures  hold  the  palm  of  victory. 

"I  will  give  you  sevenpence.  That's  quite 
enough;  and  I'll  have  to  fetch  it  from  the  shop, 
for  I  haven't  anything  on  me." 

Still  embracing  the  leeks,  she  went  back  into  the 
shop,  whither  she  had  been  preceded  by  a  customer, 
carrying  a  child. 

Just  at  this  moment  Constable  64  said  to  Crain- 
quebille  for  the  second  time: 

"Move  on." 

"I'm  waiting  for  my  money,"  replied  Cralnque- 
bille. 

"And  I'm  not  telling  you  to  wait  for  your  money; 
I'm  telling  you  to  move  on,"  retorted  the  constable 
grimly. 


8  CRAINQUEBILLE 

Meanwhile,  the  shoemaker's  wife  in  her  shop  was 
fitting  blue  slippers  on  to  a  child  of  eighteen 
months,  whose  mother  was  in  a  hurry.  And  the 
green  heads  of  the  leeks  were  lying  on  the  counter. 

For  the  half  century  that  he  had  been  pushing 
his  barrow  through  the  streets,  Crainquebille  had 
been  learning  respect  ^or  authority.  But  now  his 
position  was  a  peculiar  one:  he  was  torn  asunder 
between  what  was  his  due  and  what  was  his  duty. 
His  was  not  a  judicial  mind.  He  failed  to  under- 
stand that  the  possession  of  an  individual's  right  in 
no  way  exonerated  him  from  the  performance  of  a 
social  duty.  He  attached  too  great  importance  to 
his  claim  to  receive  sevenpence,  and  too  little  to  the 
duty  of  pushing  his  barrow  and  moving  on,  for  ever 
moving  on.     He  stood  still. 

For  the  third  time  Constable  64  quietly  and 
calmly  ordered  him  to  move  on.  Unlike  Inspector 
Montauciel,  whose  habit  it  is  to  threaten  constantly 
but  never  to  take  proceedings,  Constable  64  is  slow 
to  threaten  and  quick  to  act.  Such  is  his  character. 
Though  somewhat  sly  he  is  an  excellent  servant  and 
a  loyal  soldier.  He  is  as  brave  as  a  lion  and  as 
gentle  as  a  child.  He  knows  naught  save  his  offi- 
cial instructions. 

"Don't  you  understand  when  I  tell  you  to  move 
on?" 


CRAINQUEBILLE  9 

To  Cralnquebllle's  mind  his  reason  for  standing 
still  was  too  weighty  for  him  not  to  consider  it  suf- 
ficient. Wherefore,  artlessly  and  simply  he  ex- 
plained it: 

"Good  Lord!  Don't  I  tell  you  that  I  am  wait- 
ing for  my  money." 

Constable  64  merely  replied: 

"Do  you  want  me  to  summons  you?  If  you  do 
you  have  only  to  say  so." 

At  these  words  Cralnquebille  slowly  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  looked  sadly  at  the  constable,  and 
then  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  as  if  he  would  say: 

"I  call  God  to  witness!  Am  I  a  law-breaker? 
Am  I  one  to  make  light  of  the  by-laws  and  ordi- 
nances which  regulate  my  ambulatory  calling?  At 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning  I  was  at  the  market. 
Since  seven,  pushing  my  barrow  and  wearing  my 
hands  to  the  bone,  I  have  been  crying:  'Cabbages! 
Turnips!  Carrots!'  I  am  turned  sixty.  I  am 
worn  out.  And  you  ask  me  whether  I  have  raised 
the  black  flag  of  rebellion.  You  are  mocking  me 
and  your  joking  is  cruel." 

Either  because  he  failed  to  notice  the  expression 
on  Cralnquebllle's  face,  or  because  he  considered  It 
no  excuse  for  disobedience,  the  constable  Inquired 
curtly  and  roughly  whether  he  had  been  under- 
stood. 


10  CRAINQUEBILLE 

Now,  just  at  that  moment  the  block  of  traffic  in 
the  Rue  Montmartre  was  at  its  worst.  Carriages, 
drays,  carts,  omnibuses,  trucks,  jammed  one  against 
the  other,  seemed  indissolubly  welded  together. 
From  their  quivering  immobility  proceeded  shouts 
and  oaths.  Cabmen  and  butchers'  boys  grandilo- 
quent and  drawling  insulted  one  another  from  a 
distance,  and  omnibus  conductors,  regarding  Crain- 
quebille  as  the  cause  of  the  block,  called  him  "a 
dirty  leek." 

Meanwhile,  on  the  pavement  the  curious  were 
crowding  round  to  listen  to  the  dispute.  Then  the 
constable,  finding  himself  the  centre  of  attention, 
began  to  think  it  time  to  display  his  authority: 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  taking  a  stumpy  pencil  and 
a  greasy  notebook  from  his  pocket. 

Crainquebille  persisted  in  his  idea,  obedient  to  a 
force  within.  Besides,  it  was  now  impossible  for 
him  either  to  move  on  or  to  draw  back.  The  wheel 
of  his  barrow  was  unfortunately  caught  in  that  of 
a  milkman's  cart. 

Tearing  his  hair  beneath  his  cap  he  cried: 

"But  don't  I  tell  you  I'm  waiting  for  my  money! 
Here's  a  fix  I  Misere  de  misere!  Bon  sang  de 
bon  sang!'* 

By  these  words,  expressive  rather  of  despair  than 
of  rebellion,  Constable  64  considered  he  had  been 


CRAINQUEBILLE  ii 

insulted.  And,  because  to  his  mind  all  insults  must 
necessarily  take  the  consecrated,  regular,  tradi- 
tional, liturgical,  ritual  form  so  to  speak  of  Mort 
aux  vaches*  thus  the  offender's  words  were  heard 
and  understood  by  the  constable. 

"Ah!  You  said:  Mort  aux  vaches.  Very 
good.     Come  along." 

Stupefied  with  amazement  and  distress,  Crain- 
quebille  opened  his  great  rheumy  eyes  and  gazed 
at  Constable  64.  With  a  broken  voice  proceeding 
now  from  the  top  of  his  head  and  now  from  the 
heels  of  his  boots,  he  cried,  with  his  arms  folded 
over  his  blue  blouse: 

"I  said  'Mort  aux  vaches'?     I?  ...  Oh!" 

The  tradesmen  and  errand  boys  hailed  the  arrest 
with  laughter.  It  gratified  the  taste  of  all  crowds 
for  violent  and  ignoble  spectacles.  But  there  was 
one  serious  person  who  was  pushing  his  way  through 
the  throng;  he  was  a  sad-looking  old  man,  dressed 
in  black,  wearing  a  high  hat;  he  went  up  to  the 
constable  and  said  to  him  in  a  low  voice  very  gently 
and  firmly: 

"You  are  mistaken.  This  man  did  not  insult 
you." 

"Mind  your  own  business,"   replied  the  police- 

*It  is  impossible  to  translate  this  expression.  As  explained  on 
p.  19,  it-  means  "down  with  spies,"  the  word  spies  being  used  to 
indicate  the  police. 


II  CRAINQUEBILLE 

man,  but  without  threatening,  for  he  was  speaking 
to  a  man  who  was  well  dressed. 

The  old  man  insisted  calmly  and  tenaciously. 
And  the  policeman  ordered  him  to  make  his  dec- 
laration to  the  Police  Commissioner. 

Meanwhile  Crainquebille  was  explaining: 

'Then  I  did  say  'Mort  aux  vaches!'     Oh!  .  .  ." 

As  he  was  thus  giving  vent  to  his  astonishment, 
Madame  Bayard,  the  shoemaker's  wife,  came  to 
him  with  sevenpence  in  her  hand.  But  Constable 
64  already  had  him  by  the  collar;  so  Madame 
Bayard,  thinking  that  no  debt  could  be  due  to  a 
man  who  was  being  taken  to  the  police-station,  put 
her  sevenpence  into  her  apron  pocket. 

Then,  suddenly  beholding  his  barrow  confiscated, 
his  liberty  lost,  a  gulf  opening  beneath  him  and  the 
sky  overcast,  Crainquebille  murmured: 

"It  can't  be  helped!" 

Before  the  Commissioner,  the  old  gentleman  de- 
clared that  he  had  been  hindered  on  his  way  by  the 
block  in  the  traffic,  and  so  had  witnessed  the  inci- 
dent. He  maintained  that  the  policeman  had  not 
been  insulted,  and  that  he  was  labouring  under  a 
delusion.  He  gave  his  name  and  profession:  Dr. 
David  Matthieu,  chief  physician  at  the  Ambroise- 
Pare  Hospital,  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honour. 
At  another  time  such   evidence  would  have  been 


CRAINQUEBILLE  13 

sufficient  for  the  Commissioner.  But  just  then 
men  of  science  were  regarded  with  suspicion  in 
France. 

Crainquebille  continued  under  arrest.  He 
passed  the  night  in  the  lock-up.  In  the  morning 
he  was  taken  to  the  Police  Court  in  the  prison  van. 

He  did  not  find  prison  either  sad  or  humiliating. 
It  seemed  to  him  necessary.  What  struck  him  as 
he  entered  was  the  cleanliness  of  the  walls  and  of 
the  brick  floor. 

"Well,  for  a  clean  place,  yes,  it  is  a  clean  place. 
You  might  eat  off  the  floor." 

When  he  was  left  alone,  he  wanted  to  draw  out 
his  stool;  but  he  perceived  that  it  was  fastened  to 
the  wall.     He  expressed  his  surprise  aloud: 

"That's  a  queer  idea!  Now  there's  a  thing  I 
should  never  have  thought  of,  I'm  sure." 

Having  sat  down,  he  twiddled  his  thumbs  and 
remained  wrapped  in  amazement.  The  silence  and 
the  solitude  overwhelmed  him.  The  time  seemed 
long.  Anxiously  he  thought  of  his  barrow,  which 
had  been  confiscated  with  its  load  of  cabbages, 
carrots,  celery,  dandelion  and  corn-salad.  And  he 
wondered,  asking  himself  with  alarm:  "What 
have  they  done  with  my  barrow?" 

On  the  third  day  he  received  a  visit  from  his 
lawyer,  Maitre  Lemerle,  one  of  the  youngest  mem- 


14  CRAINQUEBILLE 

bcrs  of  the  Paris  Bar,  President  of  a  section  of  La 
Ligue  de  la  Patrie  Frangaise. 

Crainquebille  endeavoured  to  tell  him  his  story; 
but  it  was  not  easy,  for  he  was  not  accustomed  to 
conversation.  With  a  little  help  he  might  perhaps 
have  succeeded.  But  his  lawyer  shook  his  head 
doubtfully  at  everything  he  said;  and,  turning  over 
his  papers,  muttered: 

"Hm!  Hml  I  don't  find  anything  about  all 
this  in  my  brief." 

Then,  in  a  bored  tone,  twirling  his  fair  moustache 
he  said: 

"In  your  own  interest  it  would  be  advisable,  per- 
haps, for  you  to  confess.  Your  persistence  in  ab- 
solute denial  seems  to  me  extremely  unwise." 

And  from  that  moment  Crainquebille  would  have 
made  confession  if  he  had  known  what  to  confess. 


J 

III 

CRAINQUEBILLE  BEFORE  THE 
MAGISTRATES 

RESIDENT  BOURRICHE  devoted 
six  whole  minutes  to  the  examina- 
tion of  Crainquebille.  This  exam- 
ination would  have  been  more  en- 
lightening if  the  accused  had  replied 
to  the  questions  asked  him.  But  Crainquebille  was 
unaccustomed  to  discussion;  and  in  such  a  company 
his  lips  were  sealed  by  reverence  and  fear.  So  he 
was  silent:  and  the  President  answered  his  own 
question;  his  replies  were  staggering.  He  con- 
cluded: "Finally,  you  admit  having  said,  'Mort 
aux  vaches' " 

"I  said,  'Mort  aux  vaches!'  because  the  police- 
man said,  'Mort  aux  vaches!'  so  then  I  said  'Mort 
aux  vaches!* " 

He  meant  that,  being  overwhelmed  by  the  most 
unexpected  of  accusations,  he  had  in  his  amazement 
merely  repeated  the  curious  words  falsely  attributed 
to  him,  and  which  he  had  certainly  never  pro- 
nounced.    He  had  said,  "Mort  aux  vaches!"  as  he 

15 


i6  CRAINQUEBILLE 

might  have  said,  "I  capable  of  insulting  any  oncl 
how  could  you  believe  it?" 

President  Bourriche  put  a  different  interpreta- 
tion on  the  incident. 

"Do  you  maintain,"  he  said,  "that  the  policeman 
was,  himself,  the  first  to  utter  the  exclamation?" 

Crainquebille  gave  up  trying  to  explain.  It  was 
too  difficult. 

"You  do  not  persist  in  your  statement.  You 
are  quite  right,"  said  the  President. 

And  he  had  the  witness  called. 

Constable  64,  by  name  Bastien  Matra,  swore  he 
spoke  the  truth  and  nothing  but  the  truth.  Then 
he  gave  evidence  in  the  following  terms: 

"I  was  on  my  beat  on  October  20,  at  noon, 
when  I  noticed  in  the  Rue  Montmartre  a  person 
who  appeared  to  be  a  hawker,  unduly  blocking  the 
traffic  with  his  barrow  opposite  No.  328.  Three 
times  I  intimated  to  him  the  order  to  move  on,  but 
he  refused  to  comply.  And  when  I  gave  him  warn- 
ing that  I  was  about  to  charge  him,  he  retorted  by 
crying:  *Mort  aux  vachesi'  Which  I  took  as  an 
insult." 

This  evidence,  delivered  in  a  firm  and  moderate 
manner,  the  magistrates  received  with  obvious  ap- 
probation. The  witnesses  for  the  defence  were 
Madame  Bayard,  shoemaker's  wife,  and  Dr.  David 


CRAINQUEBILLE  17 

Matthleu,  chief  physician  to  the  Hospital  Ambroise 
Pare,  officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honour.  Madame 
Bayard  had  seen  nothing  and  heard  nothing.  Dr. 
Matthieu  was  in  the  crowd  which  had  gathered 
round  the  policeman,  who  was  ordering  the  coster- 
monger  to  move  on.  His  evidence  led  to  a  new 
episode  in  the  trial. 

"I  witnessed  the  Incident,"  he  said,  "I  observed 
that  the  constable  had  made  a  mistake;  he  had 
not  been  insulted.  I  went  up  to  him  and  called 
his  attention  to  the  fact.  The  officer  insisted  on 
arresting  the  costermonger,  and  told  me  to  follow 
him  to  the  Commissioner  of  Police.  This  I  did. 
Before  the  Commissioner,  I  repeated  my  dec- 
laration." 

"You  may  sit  down,"  said  the  President. 
"Usher,  recall  witness  Matra." 

"Matra,  when  you  proceeded  to  arrest  the  ac- 
cused, did  not  Dr.  Matthieu  point  out  to  you  that 
you  were  mistaken?" 

"That  is  to  say.  Monsieur  le  President,  that  he 
insulted  me." 

"What  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,  'Mort  aux  vaches!'  " 

Uproarious  laughter  arose  from  the  audience. 

"You  may  withdraw,"  said  the  President  hur- 
riedly. 


i8  CRAINQUEBILLE 

And  he  warned  the  public  that  if  such  unseemly 
demonstrations  occurred  again  he  would  clear  the 
court.  Meanwhile,  Counsel  for  the  defence  was 
haughtily  fluttering  the  sleeves  of  his  gown,  and  for 
the  moment  it  was  thought  that  Crainquebllle  would 
be  acquitted. 

Order  having  been  restored,  Maitre  Lemerle 
rose.  He  opened  his  pleading  with  a  eulogy  of 
policemen:  "those  unassuming  servants  of  society 
who,  in  return  for  a  trifling  salary,  endure  fatigue 
and  brave  incessant  danger  with  daily  heroism. 
They  were  soldiers  once,  and  soldiers  they  remain; 
soldiers,  that  word  expresses  everything.  .  .  ." 

From  this  consideration  Maitre  Lemerle  went  on 
to  descant  eloquently  on  the  military  virtues.  He 
was  one  of  those,  he  said,  who  would  not  allow 
a  finger  to  be  laid  on  the  army,  on  that  national 
army,  to  which  he  was  so  proud  to  belong. 

The  President  bowed.  Maitre  Lemerle  hap- 
pened to  be  lieutenant  in  the  Reserves.  He  was 
also  nationalist  candidate  for  Les  Vieilles  Haudri- 
ettes.     He  continued: 

"No,  indeed,  I  do  not  esteem  lightly  the  in- 
valuable services  unassumingly  rendered,  which  the 
valiant  people  of  Paris  receive  daily  from  the 
guardians  of  the  peace.  And  had  I  beheld  in  Crain- 
quebille,  gentlemen,  one  who  had  insulted  an  ex- 


CRAINQUEBILLE  19 

soldier,  I  should  never  have  consented  to  repre- 
sent him  before  you.  My  client  is  accused  of  hav- 
ing said:  'Mort  aux  vachesf  The  meaning  of 
such  an  expression  is  clear.  If  you  consult  Le  Die- 
tionnatre  de  la  Langue  Verte  (slang)  you  will  find: 
'Vachard  a  sluggard,  an  idler,  one  who  stretches 
himself  out  lazily  like  a  cow  instead  of  working. 
V  ache  J  one  who  sells  himself  to  the  police;  spy.' 
Mort  aux  vaches  is  an  expression  employed  by  cer- 
tain people.  But  the  question  resolves  itself  into 
this:  how  did  Crainquebille  say  it?  And,  further, 
did  he  say  it  at  all?  Permit  me  to  doubt  it,  gentle- 
men. 

"I  do  not  suspect  Constable  Matra  of  any  evil 
intention.  But,  as  we  have  said,  his  calling  Is  ardu- 
ous. He  is  sometimes  harassed,  fatigued,  over- 
done. In  such  conditions  he  may  have  suffered 
from  an  aural  hallucination.  And,  when  he  comes 
and  tells  you,  gentlemen,  that  Dr.  David  Matthleu, 
officer  of  the  Legion  of  Honour,  chief  physician  at 
the  Ambrolse-Pare  Hospital,  a  gentleman  and  a 
prince  of  science,  cried:  'Mort  aux  vaches,'  then 
we  are  forced  to  believe  that  Matra  Is  obsessed, 
and  if  the  term  be  not  too  strong,  suffering  from 
the  mania  of  persecution. 

"And  even  if  Crainquebille  did  cry:  'Mort  auK 
vaches'  it  remains  to  be  proved  whether  such  words 


20  CRAINQUEBILLE 

on  his  lips  can  be  regarded  as  an  offence.  Craln- 
quebille  is  the  natural  child  of  a  costermonger,  de- 
praved by  years  of  drinking  and  other  evil  courses. 
Crainquebille  was  born  alcoholic.  You  behold  him 
brutalized  by  sixty  years  of  poverty.  Gentlemen 
you  must  conclude  that  he  is  irresponsible." 

Maitre  Lemerle  sat  down.  Then  President 
Bourriche  muttered  a  sentence  condemning  Jerome 
Crainquebille  to  pay  fifty  francs  fine  and  to  go  to 
prison  for  a  fortnight.  The  magistrates  convicted 
him  on  the  strength  of  the  evidence  given  by  Con- 
stable Matra. 

As  he  was  being  taken  down  the  long  dark  pas- 
sage of  the  Palais,  Crainquebille  felt  an  intense  de- 
sire for  sympathy.  He  turned  to  the  municipal 
guard  who  was  his  escort  and  called  him  three 
times: 

♦"Cipall  .  .  .  'cipal!  ...  Eh  1  'cipall"  And 
he  sighed: 

"If  anyone  had  told  me  only  a  fortnight  ago  that 
this  would  happen!" 

Then  he  reflected: 

"They  speak  too  quickly,  these  gentlemen.  They 
speak  well,  but  they  speak  too  quickly.  You  can't 
make  them  understand  you.  .  .  .  *cipal,  don't  you 
think  they  speak  too  quickly?" 


CRAINQUEBILLE  21 

But  the  soldier  marched  straight  on  without  re- 
plying or  turning  his  head. 

Crainquebille  asked  him: 

"Why  don't  you  answer  me?" 

The  soldier  was  silent.  And  Crainquebille  said 
bitterly : 

"You  would  speak  to  a  dog.  Why  not  to  me? 
Do  you  never  open  your  mouth  ?  Is  it  because  your 
breath  is  foul  ?" 


IV 

AN  APOLOGY  FOR  PRESIDENT 
BOURRICHE 

FTER  the  sentence  had  been  pro- 
nounced, several  members  of  the 
audience  and  two  or  three  lawyers 
left  the  hall.  The  clerk  was  already 
calling  another  case.  Those  who 
went  out  did  not  reflect  on  the  Crainquebille  affair, 
which  had  not  greatly  interested  them;  and  they 
thought  no  more  about  it.  Monsieur  Jean  Ler- 
mite,  an  etcher,  who  happened  to  be  at  the  Palais, 
was  the  only  one  who  meditated  on  what  he  had 
just  seen  and  heard.  Putting  his  arm  on  the  shoul- 
der of  Maitre  Joseph  Aubarree,  he  said: 

"President  Bourriche  must  be  congratulated  on 
having  kept  his  mind  free  from  idle  curiosity,  and 
from  the  intellectual  pride  which  is  determined  to 
know  everything.  If  he  had  weighed  one  against 
the  other  the  contradictory  evidence  of  Constable 
Matra  and  Dr.  David  Matthleu,  the  magistrate 
would  have  adopted  a  course  leading  to  nothing 
but  doubt  and  uncertainty.     The  method  of  exam- 

23 


CRAINQUEBILLE  23 

ining  facts  in  a  critical  spirit  would  be  fatal  to  the 
administration  of  justice.  If  the  judge  were  so  im- 
prudent as  to  follow  that  method,  his  sentences 
would  depend  on  his  personal  sagacity,  of  which  he 
has  generally  no  very  great  store,  and  on  human 
infirmity  which  is  universal.  Where  can  he  find  a 
criterion?  It  cannot  be  denied  that  the  historical 
method  is  absolutely  incapable  of  providing  him 
with  the  certainty  he  needs.  In  this  connexion  you 
may  recall  a  story  told  of  Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 

"  'One  day,  when  Raleigh,  a  prisoner  in  the 
Tower  of  London,  was  working,  as  was  his  wont, 
at  the  second  part  of  his  "History  of  the  World," 
there  was  a  scufile  under  his  window.  He  went 
and  looked  at  the  brawlers;  and  when  he  returned 
to  his  work,  he  thought  he  had  observed  them  very 
carefully.  But  on  the  morrow,  having  related  the 
incident  to  one  of  his  friends  who  had  witnessed 
the  affair  and  had  even  taken  part  in  it,  he  was 
contradicted  by  his  friend  on  every  point.  Reflect- 
ing, therefore,  that  if  he  were  mistaken  as  to  events 
which  passed  beneath  his  very  eyes,  how  much 
greater  must  be  the  difficulty  of  ascertaining  the 
truth  concerning  events  far  distant,  he  threw  the 
manuscript  of  his  history  into  the  fire.' 

"If  the  judges  had  the  same  scruples  as  Sir 
Walter  Raleigh,  they  would  throw  all  their  notes 


24  CRAINQUEBILLE 

into  the  fire.  But  they  have  no  right  to  do  so. 
They  would  thus  be  flouting  justice ;  they  would  be 
committing  a  crime.  We  may  despair  of  knowing, 
we  must  not  despair  of  judging.  Those  who  de- 
mand that  sentences  pronounced  in  Law  Courts 
should  be  founded  upon  a  methodical  examination 
of  facts,  are  dangerous  sophists,  and  perfidious  en- 
emies of  justice  both  civil  and  military.  President 
Bourriche  has  too  judicial  a  mind  to  permit  his 
sentences  to  depend  on  reason  and  knowledge,  the 
conclusions  of  which  are  eternally  open  to  question. 
He  founds  them  on  dogma  and  moulds  them  by 
tradition,  so  that  the  authority  of  his  sentences  is 
equal  to  that  of  the  Church's  commandments.  His 
sentences  are  indeed  canonical.  I  mean  that  he 
derives  them  from  a  certain  number  of  sacred  can- 
ons. See,  for  example,  how  he  classifies  evidence, 
not  according  to  the  uncertain  and  deceptive  qual- 
ities of  appearances  and  of  human  veracity,  but  ac- 
cording to  intrinsic,  permanent  and  manifest  qual- 
ities. He  weighs  them  in  the  scale,  using  weapons 
of  war  for  weights.  Can  anything  be  at  once  sim- 
pler and  wiser?  Irrefutable  for  him  is  the  evidence 
of  a  guardian  of  the  peace,  once  his  humanity  be 
abstracted,  and  he  conceived  as  a  registered  num- 
ber, and  according  to  the  categories  of  an  ideal 
police.     Not  that  Matra  (Bastien),  born  at  Cinto- 


CRAINQUEBILLE  25 

Monte  in  Corsica,  appears  to  him  incapable  of  er- 
ror. He  never  thought  that  Bastien  Matra  was 
gifted  with  any  great  faculty  of  observation,  nor 
that  he  applied  any  secret  and  vigorous  method  to 
the  examination  of  facts.  In  truth  it  is  not  Bastien 
Matra  he  is  considering,  but  Constable  64.  A  man 
is  fallible,  he  thinks.  Peter  and  Paul  may  be  mis- 
taken. Descartes  and  Gassendi,  Leibnitz  and  New- 
ton, Bichat  and  Claude  Bernard  were  capable  of 
error.  We  may  all  err  and  at  any  moment.  The 
causes  of  error  are  innumerable.  The  perceptions 
of  our  senses  and  the  judgment  of  our  minds  are 
sources  of  illusion  and  causes  of  uncertainty.  We 
dare  not  rely  on  the  evidence  of  a  single  man : 
Testis  unus,  testis  nullus.  But  we  may  have  faith 
in  a  number.  Bastien  Matra,  of  Cinto-Monte,  is 
fallible.  But  Constable  64,  when  abstraction  has 
been  made  of  his  humanity,  cannot  err.  He  is  an 
entity.  An  entity  has  nothing  in  common  with  a 
man,  it  is  free  from  all  that  confuses,  corrupts  and 
deceives  men.  It  is  pure,  unchangeable  and  unal- 
loyed. Wherefore  the  magistrates  did  not  hesitate 
to  reject  the  evidence  of  the  mere  man.  Dr.  David 
Matthieu,  and  to  admit  that  of  Constable  64,  who 
is  the  pure  idea,  an  emanation  from  divinity  come 
down  to  the  judgment  bar. 

"By  following  such  a  line  of  argument,  President 


26  CRAINQUEBILLE 

Bourriche  attains  to  a  kind  of  infallibility,  the  only 
kind  to  which  a  magistrate  may  aspire.  When  the 
man  who  bears  witness  is  armed  with  a  sword,  it 
is  the  sword's  evidence  that  must  be  listened  to,  not 
the  man's.  The  man  is  contemptible  and  may  be 
wrong.  The  sword  is  not  contemptible  and  is  al- 
ways right.  President  Bourriche  has  seen  deeply 
into  the  spirit  of  laws.  Society  rests  on  force; 
force  must  be  respected  as  the  august  foundation 
of  society.  Justice  is  the  administration  of  force. 
President  Bourriche  knows  that  Constable  64  is  an 
integral  part  of  the  Government.  The  Govern- 
ment is  immanent  in  each  one  of  its  officers.  To 
slight  the  authority  of  Constable  64  is  to  weaken 
the  State.  To  eat  the  leaves  of  an  artichoke  is  to 
eat  the  artichoke,  as  Bossuet  puts  it  in  his  sublime 
language.  (Politique  tiree  de  VEcriture  sainte, 
passim.) 

"All  the  swords  of  the  State  arc  turned  in  the 
same  direction.  To  oppose  one  to  the  other  is  to 
overthrow  the  Republic.  For  that  reason,  Craln- 
quebille,  the  accused,  is  justly  condemned  to  a  fort- 
night in  prison  and  a  fine  of  fifty  francs,  on  the 
evidence  of  Constable  64.  I  seem  to  hear  Presi- 
dent Bourriche,  himself,  explaining  the  high  and 
noble  consideration  which  inspired  his  sentence.  I 
seem  to  hear  him  saying: 


CRAINQUEBILLE  27 

"  'I  judged  this  person  according  to  the  evidence 
of  Constable  64,  because  Constable  64  is  the  emana- 
tion of  public  force.  And  if  you  wish  to  prove  my 
wisdom,  imagine  the  consequences  had  I  adopted 
the  opposite  course.  You  will  see  at  once  that  it 
would  have  been  absurd.  For  if  my  judgments 
were  in  opposition  to  force,  they  would  never  be 
executed.  Notice,  gentlemen,  that  judges  are  only  j 
obeyed  when  force  is  on  their  side.  A  judge  with- 
out policemen  would  be  but  an  idle  dreamer.  I 
should  be  doing  myself  an  injury  if  I  admitted  a 
policeman  to  be  in  the  wrong.  Moreover,  the  very 
spirit  of  laws  is  in  opposition  to  my  doing  so.  To 
disarm  the  strong  and  to  arm  the  weak  would  be  to 
subvert  that  social  order  which  it  is  my  duty  to 
preserve.  Justice  is  the  sanction  of  established  in- 
justice. Was  justice  ever  seen  to  oppose  con- 
querors and  usurpers?  When  an  unlawful  power 
arises,  justice  has  only  to  recognize  it  and  it  be- 
comes lawful.  Form  is  everything;  and  between  1 
crime  and  innocence  there  is  but  the  thickness  of  | 
a  piece  of  stamped  paper.  It  was  for  you,  Crain- 
quebille,  to  be  the  strongest.  If,  after  having 
cried:  "Afor/  aux  vaches!"  you  had  declared  your- 
self emperor,  dictator,  President  of  the  Republic 
or  even  town  councillor,  I  assure  you  you  would 
not  have   been   sentenced  to   pass   a    fortnight   in 


28  CRAINQUEBILLE 

prison,  aod  to  pay  a  fine  of  fifty  francs.  I  should 
have  acquitted  you.     You  may  be  sure  of  that.' 

"Such  would  have  doubtless  been  the  words  of 
President  Bourriche;  for  he  has  a  judicial  mind, 
and  he  knows  what  a  magistrate  owes  to  society. 
With  order  and  regularity  he  defends  social  prin- 
ciples. Justice  is  social.  Only  wrong-headed  per- 
sons would  make  justice  out  to  be  human  and  rea- 
sonable. Justice  is  administered  upon  fixed  rules, 
not  in  obedience  to  physical  emotions  and  flashes  of 
intelligence.  Above  all  things  do  not  ask  justice 
to  be  just,  it  has  no  need  to  be  just  since  it  is  justice, 
and  I  might  even  say  that  the  idea  of  just  justice 
can  have  only  arisen  in  the  brains  of  an  anarchist. 
True,  President  Magnaud  pronounces  just  sen- 
tences; but  if  they  are  reversed,  that  is  still  justice. 

"The  true  judge  weighs  his  evidence  with  weights 
that  are  weapons.  So  it  was  in  the  Crainquebille 
affair,  and  in  other  more  famous  cases." 

Thus  said  Monsieur  Jean  Lermite  as  he  paced 
up  and  down  the  Salle  des  Pas  Perdus. 

Scratching  the  tip  of  his  nose,  Maitre  Joseph 
Aubarree,  who  knows  the  Palais  well,  replied: 

"If  you  want  to  hear  what  I  think,  I  don't  be- 
lieve that  President  Bourriche  rose  to  so  lofty  a 
metaphysical  plane.  In  my  opinion,  when  he  re- 
ceived as  true  the  evidence  of  Constable   64,  he 


CRAINQUEBILLE  29 

merely  acted  according  to  precedent.  Imitation 
lies  at  the  root  of  most  human  actions.  A  respect- 
able person  is  one  who  conforms  to  custom.  Peo- 
ple are  called  good  when  they  do  as  others  do." 


CRAINQUEBILLE  SUBMITS  TO  THE 
LAWS  OF  THE  REPUBLIC 

AVING  been  taken  back  to  his  prison, 
Crainquebille  sat  down  on  his 
chained  stool,  filled  with  astonish- 
ment and  admiration.  He,  himself, 
was  not  quite  sure  whether  the  mag- 
istrates were  mistaken.  The  tribunal  had  con- 
cealed its  essential  weakness  beneath  the  majesty 
of  form.  He  could  not  believe  that  he  was  in  the 
right,  as  against  magistrates  whose  reasons  he  had 
not  understood:  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  con- 
ceive that  anything  could  go  wrong  in  so  elaborate 
a  ceremony.  For,  unaccustomed  to  attending  Mass 
or  frequenting  the  Elysee,  he  had  never  in  his  life 
witnessed  anything  so  grand  as  a  police  court  trial. 
He  was  perfectly  aware  that  he  had  never  cried 
"Mort  aux  vaches/"  That  for  having  said  it  he 
should  have  been  sentenced  to  a  fortnight's  impris- 
onment seemed  to  him  an  august  mystery,  one  of 
those  articles  of  faith  to  which  believers  adhere 
without  understanding  them,  an  obscure,  striking, 
adorable  and  terrible  revelation. 

30 


CRAINQUEBILLE  31 

This  poor  old  man  believed  himself  guilty  of 
having  mystically  offended  Constable  64,  just  as  the 
little  boy  learning  his  first  Catechism  believes  him- 
self guilty  of  Eve's  sin.  His  sentence  had  taught 
him  that  he  had  cried:  "Mort  aux  vachesf"  He 
must,  therefore  have  cried  "Mort  aux  vachesf"  in 
some  mysterious  manner,  unknown  to  himself.  He 
was  transported  into  a  supernatural  world.  His 
trial  was  his  apocalypse. 

If  he  had  no  very  clear  idea  of  the  offence,  his 
idea  of  the  penalty  was  still  less  clear.  His  sen- 
tence appeared  to  him  a  solemn  and  superior  ritual, 
something  dazzling  and  incomprehensible,  which  is 
not  to  be  discussed,  and  for  which  one  is  neither 
to  be  praised  nor  pitied.  If  at  that  moment  he 
had  seen  President  Bourriche,  with  white  wings  and 
a  halo  round  his  forehead,  coming  down  through 
a  hole  in  the  ceiling,  he  would  not  have  been 
surprised  at  this  new  manifestation  of  judicial 
glory.  He  would  have  said:  "This  is  my  trial 
continuing!" 

On  the  next  day  his  lawyer  visited  him : 

"Well,  my  good  fellow,  things  aren't  so  bad  after 
all !  Don't  be  discouraged.  A  fortnight  is  soon 
over.     We  have  not  much  to  complain  of." 

"As  for  that,  I  must  say  the  gentlemen  were  very 
kind,    very    polite:    not    a    single    rude    word.     I 


32  CRAINQUEBILLE 

shouldn't  have  believed  it.  And  the  cipal  was 
wearing  white  gloves.     Did  you  notice?" 

"Everything  considered,  we  did  well  to  confess." 

"Perhaps." 

"Crainquebille,  I  have  a  piece  of  good  news  for 
you.  A  charitable  person,  whose  interest  I  have 
elicited  on  your  behalf,  gave  me  fifty  francs  for 
you.     The  sum  will  be  used  to  pay  your  fine." 

"When  will  you  give  me  the  money?" 

"It  will  be  paid  into  the  clerk's  office.  You 
need  not  trouble  about  it." 

"It  does  not  matter.  All  the  same  I  am  very 
grateful  to  this  person."  And  Crainquebille  mur- 
mured meditatively:  "It's  something  out  of  the 
common  that's  happening  to  me." 

"Don't  exaggerate,  Crainquebille.  Your  case  is 
by  no  means  rare,  far  from  it." 

"You  couldn't  tell  me  where  they've  put  my  bar- 
row?" 


\i  VI 

CRAINQUEBILLE  IN  THE  LIGHT  OF 
PUBLIC  OPINION 

FTER  his  discharge  from  prison, 
Crainquebille  trundled  his  barrow 
along  the  Rue  Montmartre,  crying: 
"Cabbages,  turnips,  carrots  1"  He 
was  neither  ashamed  nor  proud  of 
his  adventure.  The  memory  of  it  was  not  painful. 
He  classed  it  in  his  mind  with  dreams,  travels  and 
plays.  But,  above  all  things,  he  was  glad  to  be 
walking  in  the  mud,  along  the  paved  streets,  and  to 
see  overhead  the  rainy  sky  as  dirty  as  the  gutter, 
the  dear  sky  of  the  town.  At  every  corner  he 
stopped  to  have  a  drink;  then,  gay  and  uncon- 
strained, spitting  in  his  hands  in  order  to  moisten 
his  horny  palms,  he  would  seize  the  shafts  and  push 
on  his  barrow.  Meanwhile  a  flight  of  sparrows, 
as  poor  and  as  early  as  he,  seeking  their  livelihood 
in  the  road,  flew  off  at  the  sound  of  his  familiar 
cry:  "Cabbages,  turnips,  carrots!"  An  old  house 
wife,  who  had  come  up,  said  to  him  as  she  felt  his 
celery : 

"What'c  happened  to  you,  Pere   Crainquebille? 

33 


34  CRAINQUEBILLE 

We  haven't  seen  ycu  for  three  weeks.  Have  you 
been  ill?     You  look  rather  pale." 

"I'll  tell  you,  M'ame  Mailloche,  I've  been  doing 
the  gentleman." 

Nothing  in  his  life  changed,  except  that  he  went 
oftener  to  the  pub,  because  he  had  an  idea  it  was 
a  holiday  and  that  he  had  made  the  acquaintance 
of  charitable  folk.  He  returned  to  his  garret 
rather  gay.  Stretched  on  his  mattress  he  drew 
over  him  the  sacks  borrowed  from  the  chestnut- 
seller  at  the  corner  which  served  him  as  blankets 
and  he  pondered:  "Well,  prison  is  not  so  bad;  one 
has  everything  one  wants  there.  But  all  the  same 
one  is  better  at  home." 

His  contentment  did  not  last  long.  He  soon  per- 
ceived that  his  customers  looked  at  him  askance. 

"Fine  celery,  M'ame  Cointreau!'* 

"I  don't  want  anything." 

"What I  nothing!  do  you  live  on  air  then?" 

And  M'ame  Cointreau  without  deigning  to  reply 
returned  to  the  large  bakery  of  which  she  was  the 
mistress.  The  shopkeepers  and  caretakers,  who 
had  once  flocked  round  his  barrow  all  green  and 
blooming,  now  turned  away  from  him.  Having 
reached  the  shoemaker's,  at  the  sign  of  I'Ange  Gar- 
dien,  the  place  where  his  adventures  with  justice 
had  begun,  he  called: 


CRAINQUEBILLE  35 

"M'ame  Bayard,  M'ame  Bayard,  you  owe  me 
sevenpence  halfpenny  from  last  time." 

But  M'ame  Bayard,  who  was  sitting  at  her 
counter,  did  not  deign  to  turn  her  head. 

The  whole  of  the  Rue  Montmartre  was  aware 
that  Pere  Crainquebille  had  been  in  prison,  and  the 
whole  of  the  Rue  Montmartre  gave  up  his  acquaint- 
ance. The  rumour  of  his  conviction  had  reached 
the  Faubourg  and  the  noisy  corner  of  the  Rue 
Richer.  There,  about  noon,  he  perceived  Madame 
Laure,  a  kind  and  faithful  customer,  leaning  over 
the  barrow  of  another  costermonger,  young  Martin. 
She  was  feeling  a  large  cabbage.  Her  hair  shone 
in  the  sunlight  like  masses  of  golden  threads  loosely 
twisted.  And  young  Martin,  a  nobody,  a  good-for- 
nothing,  was  protesting  with  his  hand  on  his  heart 
that  there  were  no  finer  vegetables  than  his.  At 
this  sight  Crainquebille's  heart  was  rent.  He 
pushed  his  barrow  up  to  young  Martin's,  and  in 
a  plaintive  broken  voice  said  to  Madame  Laure: 
"It's  not  fair  of  you  to  forsake  me." 

As  Madame  Laure  herself  admitted,  she  was  no 
duchess.  It  was  not  in  society  that  she  had  ac- 
quired her  ideas  of  the  prison  van  and  the  police- 
station.  But  can  one  not  be  honest  in  every  sta- 
tion in  life?  Every  one  has  his  self-respect;  and 
one  does  not  like  to  deal  with  a  man  who  has  just 


36  CRAINQUEBILLE 

come  out  of  prison.  So  the  only  notice  she  took  of 
Crainqucbille  was  to  give  him  a  look  of  disgust. 
And  the  old  costermonger  resenting  the  affront 
shouted : 

"Dirty  wench,  go  along  with  you." 

Madame  Laure  let  fall  her  cabbage  and  cried: 

"Eh!  Be  off  with  you,  you  bad  penny.  You 
come  out  of  prison  and  then  insult  folk!" 

If  Crainquebille  had  had  any  self-control  he 
would  never  have  reproached  Madame  Laure  with 
her  calling.  He  knew  only  too  well  that  one  is 
not  master  of  one's  fate,  that  one  cannot  always 
choose  one's  occupation,  and  that  good  people  may 
be  found  everywhere.  He  was  accustomed  dis- 
creetly to  ignore  her  customers'  business  with  her; 
and  he  despised  no  one.  But  he  was  beside  him- 
self.  Three  times  he  called  Madame  Laure 
drunkard,  wench,  harridan.  A  group  of  idlers 
gathered  round  Madame  Laure  and  Crainquebille. 
They  exchanged  a  few  more  insults  as  serious  as  the 
first;  and  they  would  soon  have  exhausted  their 
vocabulary,  if  a  policeman  had  not  suddenly  ap- 
peared, and  at  once,  by  his  silence  and  immobility, 
rendered  them  as  silent  and  as  motionless  as  him- 
self. They  separated.  But  this  scene  put  the  fin- 
ishing touch  to  the  discrediting  of  Crainquebille  in 
the  eyes  of  the  Faubourg  Montmartre  and  the  Rue 
Richer. 


VII 

"^    RESULTS 

HE  old  man  went  along  mumbling: 
"For  certain   she's   a   hussy,   and 
none  more  of  a  hussy  than  she." 

But  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
that  was  not  the  reproach  he  brought 
against  her.  He  did  not  scorn  her  for  being  what 
she  was.  Rather  he  esteemed  her  for  it,  knowing 
her  to  be  frugal  and  orderly.  Once  they  had  liked 
to  talk  together.  She  used  to  tell  him  of  her  par- 
ents who  lived  in  the  country.  And  they  had  both 
resolved  to  have  a  little  garden  and  keep  poultry. 
She  was  a  good  customer.  And  then  to  see  her 
buying  cabbages  from  young  Martin,  a  dirty,  good- 
for-nothing  wretch;  it  cut  him  to  the  heart;  and 
when  she  pretended  to  despise  him,  that  put  his 
back  up,  and  then  ...    I 

But  she,  alas !  was  not  the  only  one  who  shunned 
him  as  if  he  had  the  plague.  Every  one  avoided 
him.  Just  like  Madame  Laure,  Madame  Coin- 
treau the  baker,  Madame  Bayard  of  I'Ange  Gardien 
scorned  and  repulsed  him.  Why!  the  whole  of  so- 
ciety refused  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him. 

7,7 


i 


38  CRAINQUEBILLE 

So  because  one  had  been  put  away  for  a  fortnight 
one  was  not  good  enough  even  to  sell  leeks  1  Was 
it  just?  Was  it  reasonable  to  make  a  decent  chap 
die  of  starvation  because  he  had  got  into  difficulties 
with  a  copper?  If  he  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  sell 
vegetables  then  it  was  all  over  with  him.  Like  a 
badly  doctored  wine  he  turned  sour.  After  having 
had  words  with  Madame  Laure  he  now  had  them 
with  every  one.  For  a  mere  nothing  he  would  tell 
his  customers  what  he  thought  of  them  and  in  no 
ambiguous  terms,  I  assure  you.  If  they  felt  his 
wares  too  long  he  would  call  them  to  their  faces 
chatterer,  soft  head.  Likewise  at  the  wine-shop  he 
bawled  at  his  comrades.  His  friend,  the  chestnut- 
seller,  no  longer  recognized  him;  old  Pere  Crain- 
quebille,  he  said,  had  turned  into  a  regular  porcu- 
pine. It  cannot  be  denied :  he  was  becoming  rude, 
disagreeable,  evil-mouthed,  loquacious.  The  truth 
of  the  matter  was  that  he  was  discovering  the  im- 
perfections of  society;  but  he  had  not  the  facilities 
of  a  Professor  of  Moral  and  Political  Science  for 
the  expression  of  his  ideas  concerning  the  vices  of 
the  system  and  the  reforms  necessary;  and  his 
thoughts  evolved  devoid  of  order  and  moderation. 

Misfortune  was  rendering  him  unjust.  He  was 
taking  his  revenge  on  those  who  did  not  wish  him 
ill  and  sometimes  on  those  who  were  weaker  than 


CRAINQUEBILLE  39 

he.  One  day  he  boxed  Alphonse,  the  wine-seller's 
little  boy,  on  the  ear,  because  he  had  asked  him 
what  it  was  like  to  be  sent  away.  Crainquebille 
struck  him  and  said: 

"Dirty  brat!  it's  your  father  who  ought  to  be 
sent  away  instead  of  growing  rich  by  selling 
poison." 

A  deed  and  a  speech  which  did  him  no  honour; 
for,  as  the  chestnut-seller  justly  remarked,  one 
ought  not  to  strike  a  child,  neither  should  one  re- 
proach him  with  a  father  whom  he  has  not  chosen. 

Crainquebille  began  to  drink.  The  less  money 
he  earned  the  more  brandy  he  drank.  Formerly 
frugal  and  sober  he  himself  marvelled  at  the 
change. 

"I  never  used  to  be  a  waster,"  he  said.  "I  sup- 
pose one  doesn't  improve  as  one  grows  old." 

Sometimes  he  severely  blamed  himself  for  his 
misconduct  and  his  laziness: 

"Crainquebille,  old  chap,  you  ain't  good  for  any- 
thing but  liftin'  your  glass." 

Sometimes  he  deceived  himself  and  made  out 
that  he  needed  the  drink. 

"I  must  have  it  now  and  then;  I  must  have  a 
drop  to  strengthen  me  and  cheer  me  up.  It  seems 
as  if  I  had  a  fire  in  my  inside;  and  there's  nothing 
like  the  drink  for  quenching  it." 


40  CRAINQUEBILLE 

It  often  happened  that  he  missed  the  auction  in 
the  morning  and  so  had  to  provide  himself  with 
damaged  fruit  and  vegetables  on  credit.  One  day, 
feeling  tired  and  discouraged,  he  left  his  barrow  in 
its  shed,  and  spent  the  livelong  day  hanging  round 
the  stall  of  Madame  Rose,  the  tripe-seller,  or  loung- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  wine-shops  near  the  market. 
In  the  evening  sitting  on  a  basket,  he  meditated 
and  became  conscious  of  his  deterioration.  He  re- 
called the  strength  of  his  early  years:  the  achieve- 
ments of  former  days,  the  arduous  labours  and  the 
glad  evenings:  those  days  quickly  passing,  all  alike 
and  fully  occupied;  the  pacing  in  the  darkness  up 
and  down  the  Market  pavement,  waiting  for  the 
early  auction;  the  vegetables  carried  armfuls  and 
artistically  arranged  in  the  barrow;  the  piping  hot 
black  coffee  of  Mere  Theodore  swallowed  standing, 
and  at  one  gulp;  the  shafts  grasped  vigorously; 
and  then  the  loud  cry,  piercing  as  cock  crow,  rend- 
ing the  morning  air  as  he  passed  through  the 
crowded  streets.  All  that  innocent,  rough  life  of 
the  human  pack-horse  came  before  him.  For  half 
a  century,  on  his  travelling  stall,  he  had  borne  to 
townsfolk  worn  with  care  and  vigil  the  fresh 
harvest  of  kitchen  gardens.  Shaking  his  head  he 
sighed : 

"No!     I'm    not   what   I    was.     Vm    done    for. 


CRAINQUEBILLE  41 

The  pitcher  goes  so  often  to  the  well  that  at  last 
it  comes  home  broken.  And  then  I've  never  been 
the  same  since  my  affair  with  the  magistrates.  No, 
I'm  not  the  man  I  was." 

In  short  he  was  demoralized.  And  when  a  man 
reaches  that  condition  he  might  as  well  be  on  the 
ground  and  unable  to  rise.  All  the  passers-by  tread 
him  under  foot. 


\j   VIII 
THE  FINAL  RESULT 

OVERTY  came,  black  poverty.  The 
old  costermonger  who  used  to  come 
back  from  the  Faubourg  Mont- 
martre  with  a  bag  full  of  five-franc 
pieces,  had  not  a  single  coin  now. 
Winter  came.  Driven  out  of  his  garret,  he  slept 
under  the  carts  in  a  shed.  It  had  been  raining 
for  days;  the  gutters  were  overflowing,  and  the  shed 
was  flooded. 

Crouching  in  his  barrow,  over  the  pestilent  water, 
in  the  company  of  spiders,  rats  and  half-starved  cats, 
he  was  meditating  in  the  gloom.  Having  eaten 
nothing  all  day  and  no  longer  having  the  chestnut- 
seller's  sacks  for  a  covering,  he  recalled  the  fort- 
night when  the  Government  had  provided  him  with 
food  and  clothing.  He  envied  the  prisoner's  fate. 
They  suffer  neither  cold  nor  hunger,  and  an  idea  oc- 
curred to  him: 

"Since  I  know  the  trick  why  don't  I  use  it?" 
He  rose  and  went  out  into  the  street.     It  was  a 
little  past  eleven.     The  night  was  dark  and  chill. 

4a 


CRAINQUEBILLE  43 

A  drizzling  mist  was  falling  colder,  and  more  pene- 
trating than  rain.  The  few  passers-by  crept  along 
under  the  cover  of  the  houses. 

Crainquebille  went  past  the  Church  of  Saint- 
Eustache  and  turned  into  the  Rue  Montmartre.  It 
was  deserted.  A  guardian  of  the  peace  stood  on 
the  pavement,  by  the  apse  of  the  church.  He  was 
under  a  gas-lamp,  and  all  around  fell  a  fine  rain 
looking  reddish  in  the  gaslight.  It  fell  on  to  the 
policeman's  hood.  He  looked  chilled  to  the  bone; 
but,  either  because  he  preferred  to  be  in  the  light  or 
because  he  was  tired  of  walking  he  stayed  under 
the  lamp,  and  perhaps  it  seemed  to  him  a  friend,  a 
companion.  In  the  loneliness  of  the  night  the  flick- 
ering flame  was  his  only  entertainment.  In  his  im- 
mobility he  appeared  hardly  human.  The  reflection 
of  his  boots  on  the  wet  pavement,  which  looked  like 
a  lake,  prolonged  him  downwards  and  gave  him 
from  a  distance  the  air  of  some  amphibious  mon- 
ster half  out  of  water.  Observed  more  closely  he 
had  at  once  a  monkish  and  a  military  appearance. 
The  coarse  features  of  his  countenance,  magnified 
under  the  shadow  of  his  hood,  were  sad  and  placid. 
He  wore  a  thick  moustache,  short  and  grey.  He 
was  an  old  copper,  a  man  of  some  two-score  years. 
Crainquebille  went  up  to  him  softly,  and  in  a  weak 
hesitating  voice,  said:     "Mort  aux  vaches!" 


44  CRAINQUEBILLE 

Then  he  waited  the  result  of  those  sacred  words. 
But  nothing  came  of  them.  The  constable  re- 
mained motionless  and  silent,  with  his  arms  folded 
under  his  short  cloak.  His  eyes  were  wide  open; 
they  glistened  in  the  darkness  and  regarded  Crain- 
quebille  with  sadness,  vigilance  and  scorn. 

Crainquebille,  astonished,  but  still  resolute,  mut- 
tered : 

"Mort  aux  vaches!     I  tell  you." 

There  was  a  long  silence  in  the  chill  darkness  and 
the  falling  of  the  fine  penetrating  rain.  At  last 
the  constable  spoke: 

*'Such  things  are  not  said.  .  .  .  For  sure  and  for 
certain  they  are  not  said.  At  your  age  you  ought 
to  know  better.     Pass  on." 

"Why  don't  you  arrest  me?"  asked  Crainque- 
bille. 

The  constable  shook  his  head  beneath  his  drip- 
ping hood : 

"If  we  were  to  take  up  all  the  addle-pates  who 
say  what  they  oughn't  to,  we  should  have  our  work 
cut  out!  .  .  .  And  what  would  be  the  use  of  it?" 

Overcome  by  such  magnanimous  disdain,  Crain- 
quebille remained  for  some  time  stolid  and  silent, 
with  his  feet  in  the  gutter.  Before  going,  he  tried 
to  explain: 

"I  didn't  mean  to  say:  Mort  aux  vaches!  to  you. 


CRAINQUEBILLE  45 

It  was  no  more  for  you  than  for  another.     It  was 
only  an  idea." 

The  constable  replied  sternly  but  kindly : 
"Whether   an   idea   or   anything  else   it   ought 
not  to  be  said,  because  when  a  man  does  his  duty 
and  endures  much,  he  ought  not  to  be  insulted  with 
idle  words.  ...  I  tell  you  again  to  pass  on." 

Crainquebille,  with  head  bent  and  arms  hanging 
limp    plunged    into    the    rain    and    the    darkness. 


PUTOIS 


TO  GEORGES  BRANDES 


PUTOIS 
I 

HEN  we  were  children,  our  tiny  gar- 
den, which  you  could  go  from  end 
to  end  of  in  twenty  strides,  seemed 
to  us  a  vast  universe,  made  up  of 
joys  and  terrors,"  said  Monsieur 
.  Jergeret. 

"Do  you  remember  Putols,  Lucien?"  asked  Zoe, 
smiling  as  was  her  wont,  with  lips  compressed  and 
her  nose  over  her  needlework. 

"Do  I  remember  Putols!  .  .  .  Why,  of  all  the 
figures  which  pass  before  my  childhood's  eyes,  that 
of  Putols  remains  the  clearest  in  my  memory.  Not 
a  single  feature  of  his  face  or  his  character  have  I 
forgotten.     He  had  a  long  head.   .   .   ." 

"A  low  forehead,"  added  Mademoiselle  Zoe. 
Then  antiphonally,  in  a  monotonous  voice,  with 
mock  gravity,   the   brother   and   sister   recited   the 
following  points  of  a  kind  of  police  description: 
"A  low  fore-head." 
"Wall-eyed." 
"Furtive  looking." 

49 


50  PUTOIS 

**A  crow's  foot  on  his  temple." 

"High  cheek-bones,  red  and  shiny." 

"His  ears  were  ragged." 

"His  face  was  blank  and  expressionless." 

"It  was  only  by  his  hands,  which  were  constantly 
moving,  that  you  divined  his  thoughts." 

"Thin,  rather  bent,  weak  in  appearance." 

"In  reality  of  unusual  strength." 

"He  could  easily  bend  a  five-franc  piece  between 
his  thumb  and  forefinger." 

"His  thumb  was  huge." 

"He  spoke  with  a  drawl." 

"His  tone  was  unctuous." 

Suddenly  Monsieur  Bergeret  cried  eagerly: 

"Zoe!  We  have  forgotten  his  yellow  hair  and 
his  scant  beard.     We  must  begin  again." 

Pauline  had  been  listening  with  astonishment  to 
this  strange  recital.  She  asked  her  father  and  her 
aunt  how  they  had  come  to  learn  this  prose  passage 
by  heart,  and  why  they  recited  it  like  a  Litany. 

Monsieur  Bergeret  replied  gravely: 

"Pauline,  what  you  have  just  heard  is  the  sacred 
text,  I  may  say  the  liturgy  of  the  Bergeret  family. 
It  is  right  that  it  should  be  transmitted  to  you  in 
order  that  it  may  not  perish  with  your  aunt  and  me. 
Your  grandfather,  my  child,  your  grandfather,  Eloi 
Bergeret,  who  was  not  one  to  be  amused  with  trifles, 


PUTOIS  51 

set  a  high  value  on  this  passage,  principally  on 
account  of  its  origin.  He  entitled  it  'The  Anatomy 
of  Putois.'  And  he  was  accustomed  to  say  that  in 
certain  respects  he  set  the  anatomy  of  Putois 
above  the  anatomy  of  Quaresmeprenant.  'If  the 
description  written  by  Xenomanes,'  he  said,  'is 
more  learned  and  richer  in  rare  and  precious  terms, 
the  description  of  Plutois  greatly  excels  it  in  the 
lucidity  of  its  ideas  and  the  clearness  of  its  style.' 
Such  was  his  opinion,  for  in  those  days  Doctor 
Ledouble,  of  Tours,  had  not  yet  expounded 
chapters  thirty,  thirty-one  and  thirty-two  of  the 
fourth  book  of  Rabelais." 

"I  can't  understand  you,"  said  Pauline. 

"It  is  because  you  don't  know  Putois,  my 
daughter.  You  must  learn  that,  in  the  childhood  of 
your  father  and  your  Aunt  Zoe,  there  was  no  more 
familiar  figure  than  Putois.  In  the  home  of  your 
grandfather  Bergeret,  Putois  was  a  household  word. 
We  all,  in  turn,  believed  that  we  had  seen  him." 

"But  who  was  Putois?"  asked  Pauline. 

Instead  of  replying  her  father  began  to  laugh, 
and  Mademoiselle  Bergeret  also  laughed,  though 
her  lips  were  closed. 

Pauline  looked  first  at  one  and  then  at  the  other. 
It  seemed  to  her  odd  that  her  aunt  should  laugh  so 
heartily,  and  odder  still  that  she  should  laugh  at  the 


52  PUTOIS 

same  thing  as  her  brother;  for  strange  to  say  the 
minds  of  the  brother  and  sister  moved  in  different 
grooves. 

"Tell  me  who  Putois  was,  papa.  Since  you  want 
me  to  know,  tell  me." 

"Putois,  my  child,  was  a  gardener.  The  son  of 
honest  farmers  of  Artois,  he  had  set  up  as  a  nursery- 
man at  Saint-Omer.  But  he  was  unable  to  please 
his  customers  and  failed  in  business.  He  gave  up 
his  nursery  and  went  out  to  work  by  the  day.  His 
employers  were  not  always  satisfied." 

At  these  words,  Mademoiselle  Bergeret,  still 
laughing,  remarked: 

"You  remember,  Lucien,  when  father  couldn't 
find  his  ink-pot,  his  pens,  his  sealing-wax  or  his 
scissors  on  his  desk,  how  he  used  to  say:  *I  think 
Putois  must  have  been  here.'  " 

"Ah!"  said  Monsieur  Bergeret,  "Putois  had  not 
a  good  reputation." 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Pauline. 

"No,  my  child,  it  is  not  all.  There  was  some- 
thing odd  about  Putois;  we  knew  him,  he  was 
familiar  to  us  and  yet  .   .   ." 

....  "He  did  not  exist,"  said  Zoe. 

Monsieur  Bergeret  looked  reproachfully  at  her. 

"What  a  thing  to  say,  Zoe  I     Why  thus  break  the 


PUTOIS  53 

charm?  Putois  did  not  exist!  Dare  you  say  so, 
Zoe?  Can  you  maintain  it?  Before  affirming 
that  Putois  did  not  exist,  that  Putois  never  was,  you 
should  consider  the  condition  of  being  and  the 
modes  of  existence.  Putois  existed,  sister.  But  it 
is  true  that  his  was  a  peculiar  existence." 

"I  understand  less  and  less,"  said  Pauline,  grow- 
ing discouraged. 

"The  truth  will  dawn  upon  you  directly,  child. 
Know  that  Putois  was  born  in  the  fullness  of  age. 
I  was  still  a  child;  your  aunt  was  a  little  girl.  We 
lived  in  a  small  house,  in  a  suburb  of  Saint-Omer. 
Our  parents  led  a  quiet  retired  life,  until  they  were 
discovered  by  an  old  lady  of  Saint-Omer,  Madame 
Cornouiller,  who  lived  in  her  manor  of  Monplaisir, 
some  twelve  miles  from  the  town,  and  who  turned 
out  to  be  my  mother's  great  aunt.  She  took  advan- 
tage of  the  privilege  of  friendship,  to  insist  on  our 
father  and  mother  coming  to  dine  with  her  at 
Monplaisir  every  Sunday.  There  they  were  bored 
to  death.  But  the  old  lady  said  it  was  right  for 
relatives  to  dine  together  on  Sundays,  and  that  only 
ill-bred  persons  neglected  the  observance  of  this 
ancient  custom.  Our  father  was  miserable.  His 
sufferings  were  pitiful  to  behold.  But  Madame 
Cornouiller  did  not  see  them.     She  saw  nothing. 


54  PUTOIS 

My  mother  bore  it  better.  She  suffered  as  much  as 
my  father,  and  perhaps  more,  but  she  contrived  to 
smile." 

"Women  are  made  to  suffer,"  said  Zoe. 

"Every  living  creature  in  the  world  is  born  to 
suffer,  Zoe.  It  was  in  vain  that  our  parents  refused 
these  terrible  invitations;  Madame  Cornouiller's 
carriage  came  to  fetch  them  every  Sunday  after- 
noon. They  were  bound  to  go  to  Monplaisir;  it 
was  an  obligation  which  they  could  not  possibly 
avoid.  It  was  an  established  order  which  only 
open  rebellion  could  disturb.  At  length  my  father 
revolted,  and  swore  he  would  not  accept  another  of 
Madame  Cornouiller's  invitations.  To  my  mother 
he  left  the  task,  of  finding  decent  pretexts  and  vary- 
ing reasons  for  their  repeated  refusals;  it  was  a  task 
for  which  she  was  ill  fitted;  for  she  was  incapable  of 
dissimulation." 

"Say,  rather,  Lucien,  that  she  was  not  willing  to 
dissimulate.  Had  she  wished  she  could  have  fibbed 
like  anyone  else." 

"It  is  true  that  when  she  had  good  reasons  she 
preferred  giving  them  to  inventing  bad  ones.  You 
remember,  sister,  that  one  day  she  said  at  table: 
'Fortunately  Zoe  has  whooping-cough :  so  we  shall 
not  have  to  go  to  Monplaisir  for  a  long  time.'  " 

"Yes,  that  did  happen,"  said  Zoe. 


PUTOIS  55 

"You  recovered,  Zoe.  And  one  day  Madame 
Cornouiller  came  and  said  to  our  mother:  'My 
dear,  I  am  counting  on  you  and  your  husband  to 
dine  at  Monplaisir  on  Sunday.'  Our  mother  had 
been  expressly  enjoined  by  her  husband  to  give 
Madame  Cornouiller  some  plausible  pretext  for  re- 
fusing. In  her  extremity  the  only  excuse  she  could 
think  of  was  absolutely  devoid  of  probability:  'I 
am  extremely  sorry,  madame,  but  it  will  be  im- 
possible.    On  Sunday  I  expect  the  gardener.' 

"At  these  words  Madame  Cornouiller  looked 
through  the  glazed  door  of  the  drawing-room  at  the 
wilderness  of  a  little  garden,  where  the  spindle- 
trees  and  the  lilacs  looked  as  if  they  never  had  and 
never  would  make  the  acquaintance  of  a  pruning- 
hook.  'You  are  expecting  the  gardener!  What 
for?     To  work  in  your  garden !' 

"Then,  our  mother,  having  involuntarily  cast  eyes 
on  the  patch  of  rough  grass  and  half-wild  plants, 
which  she  had  just  called  a  garden,  realized  with 
alarm  that  her  excuse  must  appear  a  mere  invention. 
'Why  couldn't  this  man  come  on  Monday  or  Tues- 
day to  work  in  your  .  .  .  garden?  Either  of  these 
days  would  be  better.  It  is  wrong  to  work  on  Sun- 
day.    Is  he  occupied  during  the  week?' 

"I  have  often  noticed  that  the  most  impudent 
and  the  most  absurd  reasons  meet  with  the  least 


S6  PUTOIS 

resistance ;  they  disconcert  the  opponent.  Madame 
Cornouiller  insisted  less  than  might  have  been  ex- 
pected of  a  person  so  disinclined  to  give  in. 
Rising  from  her  chair  she  asked:  'What  is  your 
gardener's  name,  dear?' 

"  *Putois,'  replied  our  mother  promptly. 

"Putois  had  a  name.  Henceforth  he  existed. 
Madame  Cornouiller  went  off  mumbling:  'PutoisI 
I  seem  to  know  that  name.  Putois?  PutoisI 
Why,  yes,  I  know  him  well  enough.  But  I  can't 
recall  him.  Where  does  he  live?  He  goes  out  to 
work  by  the  day.  When  people  want  him,  they 
send  for  him  to  some  house  where  he  is  working. 
Ah  I  Just  as  I  thought;  he  is  a  loafer,  a  vagabond 
...  a  good-for-nothing.  You  should  beware  of 
him,  my  dear.' 

"Henceforth  Putois  had  a  character." 


II 

lONSIEUR  GOUBIN  and  Monsieur 
Jean  Marteau  came  in.  Monsieur 
Bergeret  told  them  the  subject  of 
the  conversation: 

"We  were  talking  of  the  man 
whom  my  mother  one  day  caused  to  exist,  and 
created  gardener  at  Saint-Omer.  She  gave  him  a 
name.     Henceforth  he  acted." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir?"  said  Monsieur  Goubin, 
wiping  his  eye-glasses.  "Do  you  mind  saying  that 
over  again?" 

"Willingly,"  replied  Monsieur  Bergeret.  "There 
was  no  gardener.  The  gardener  did  not  exist. 
My  mother  said:  'I  expect  the  gardener!'  Straight- 
way the  gardener  existed — and  acted." 

"But,  Professor,"  inquired  Monsieur  Goubin, 
"how  can  he  have  acted  if  he  did  not  exist?" 

"In  a  manner,  he  did  exist,"  replied  Monsieur 
Bergeret. 

"You  mean  he  existed  in  imagination,"  scorn- 
fully retorted  Monsieur  Goubin. 

"And  is  not  imaginary  existence,  existence?"  ex- 
claimed the  Professor.     "Are  not  mythical  person- 

57 


58  PUTOIS 

ages  capable  of  influencing  men?  Think  of  myth- 
ology, Monsieur  Goubin,  and  you  will  perceive  that 
it  is  not  the  real  characters,  but  rather  the  imag- 
inary ones  that  exercise  the  profoundest  and  the 
most  durable  influence  over  our  minds.  In  all 
times  and  in  all  lands,  beings  who  were  no  more 
real  than  Putois,  have  inspired  nations  with  love 
and  hatred,  with  terror  and  hope,  they  have  coun- 
selled crimes,  they  have  received  offerings,  they 
have  moulded  manners  and  laws.  Monsieur  Gou- 
bin, think  on  the  mythology  of  the  ages,  Putois 
is  a  mythological  personage,  obscure,  I  admit,  and 
of  the  humblest  order.  The  rude  satyr,  who  used 
to  sit  at  a  table  with  our  northern  peasants,  was 
deemed  worthy  to  figure  in  one  of  Jordaens'  pic- 
tures, and  in  a  fable  of  La  Fontaine.  The  hairy 
son  of  Sycorax  was  introduced  into  the  sublime 
world  of  Shakespeare.  Putois,  less  fortunate,  will 
be  for  ever  scorned  by  poets  and  artists.  He  is 
lacking  in  grandeur  and  mystery;  he  has  no  distinc- 
tion, no  character.  He  is  the  offspring  of  too  ra- 
tional a  mind;  he  was  conceived  by  persons  who 
knew  how  to  read  and  write,  who  lacked  the  en- 
chanting imagination  which  gives  birth  to  fables. 
Gentlemen,  I  think  what  I  have  said  is  enough  to 
reveal  to  you  the  true  nature  of  Putois." 
"I  understand  it,"  said  Monsieur  Goubin. 


PUTOIS  59 

Then  Monsieur  Bergeret  continued : 
"Putois  existed.  I  maintain  it.  He  was.  Con- 
sider, gentlemen,  and  you  will  conclude  that  the 
condition  of  being  in  no  way  implies  matter;  it  sig- 
nifies only  the  connexion  between  attribute  and  sub- 
ject, it  expresses  merely  a  relation." 

"Doubtless,"  said  Jean  Marteau,  "but  to  be  with- 
out attributes  is  to  be  practically  nothing.  Some 
one  said  long  ago:  *I  am  that  I  am.'  Pardon 
my  bad  memory;  but  one  can't  recollect  everything. 
Whoever  it  was  who  spoke  thus  committed  a  great 
imprudence.  By  those  thoughtless  words  he  im- 
plied that  he  was  devoid  of  attributes  and  without 
relation,  wherefore  he  asserted  his  own  non-exis- 
tence and  rashly  suppressed  himself.  I  wager  that 
he  has  never  been  heard  of  since." 

"Then  your  wager  is  lost,"  replied  Monsieur 
Bergeret.  "He  corrected  the  bad  effect  of  those 
egotistical  words  by  applying  to  himself  a  whole 
string  of  adjectives.  He  has  been  greatly  talked 
of,  but  generally  without  much  sense." 

"I  don't  understand,"  said  Monsieur  Goubin. 

"That  does  not  matter,"  replied  Jean  Marteau. 

And  he  requested  Monsieur  Bergeret  to  tell  them 
about  Putois. 

"It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  ask  me,"  said  the  Pro- 
fessor.    "Putois  was  born  in  the  second  half  of  the 


6o  PUTOIS 

nineteenth  century,  at  Saint-Omer.  It  would  have 
been  better  for  him  had  he  been  bom  some  cen- 
turies earlier,  in  the  Forest  of  Arden  or  in  the 
Wood  of  Broceliande.  He  would  then  have  been 
an  evil  spirit  of  extraordinary  cleverness." 

**A  cup  of  tea,  Monsieur  Goubin,"  said  Pauline. 

"Was  Putois  an  evil  spirit  then?"  inquired  Jean 
Marteau. 

"He  was  evil,"  replied  Monsieur  Bergeret;  "in 
a  certain  way,  and  yet  not  absolutely  evil.  He 
was  like  those  devils  who  are  said  to  be  very  wicked, 
but  in  whom,  when  one  comes  to  know  them,  one 
discovers  good  qualities.  I  am  disposed  to  think 
that  justice  has  not  been  done  to  Putois.  Madame 
Cornouiller  was  prejudiced  against  him;  she  imme- 
diately suspected  him  of  being  a  loafer,  a  drunkard, 
a  thief.  Then,  reflecting  that  since  he  was  em- 
ployed by  my  mother,  who  was  not  rich,  he  could 
not  ask  for  high  pay,  she  wondered  whether  it  might 
not  be  to  her  advantage  to  engage  him  in  the  place 
of  her  own  gardener,  who  had  a  better  reputation, 
but  also,  alas!  more  requirements.  It  would  soon 
be  the  season  for  trimming  the  yew-trees.  She 
thought  that  if  Madame  Eloi  Bergeret,  who  was 
poor,  paid  Putois  little,  she  who  was  rich  might 
give  him  still  less,  since  it  is  the  custom  for  the 
rich  to  pay  less  than  the  poor.     And  already  in  her 


PUTOIS  6i 

mind's  eye  she  beheld  her  yew-trees  cut  into  walls, 
spheres  and  pyramids,  all  for  but  a  trifling  outlay. 
*I  should  look  after  Putois,'  she  said  to  herself,  'and 
see  that  he  did  not  loaf  and  thieve.  I  risk  nothing 
and  save  a  good  deal.  These  casual  labourers 
sometimes  do  better  than  skilled  workmen.'  She 
resolved  to  make  the  experiment,  she  said  to  my 
mother:  'Send  Putois  to  me,  my  dear.  I  will  give 
him  work  at  Monplaisir.'  My  mother  promised. 
She  would  willingly  have  done  it.  But  really  it 
was  impossible.  Madame  Cornouiller  expected 
Putois  at  Monplaisir  and  expected  him  in  vain. 
She  was  a  persistent  person,  and,  once  having  made 
a  resolve,  she  was  determined  to  carry  it  out. 
When  she  saw  my  mother,  she  complained  of  having 
heard  nothing  of  Putois.  'Did  you  not  tell  him, 
my  dear,  that  I  was  expecting  him?'  'Yes,  but  he 
is  so  strange,  so  erratic  .  .  .'  'Oh!  I  know  that 
sort  of  person.  I  know  your  Putois  through  and 
through.  But  no  workman  can  be  so  mad  as  to 
refuse  to  come  to  work  at  Monplaisir.  My  house 
is  well  known,  I  should  think.  Putois  will  come 
for  my  instructions,  and  quickly,  my  dear.  Only 
tell  me  where  he  lives;  and  I  will  go  and  find  him 
myself.'  My  mother  replied  that  she  did  not  know 
where  Putois  lived,  he  was  not  known  to  have  a 
home,  he  was  without  an  address.     'I  have  not  seen 


62  PUTOIS 

him  again,  Madame.  He  seems  to  have  gone  into 
hiding.'  She  could  not  have  come  nearer  the  truth. 
And  yet  Madame  Cornouiller  listened  to  her  with 
mistrust.  She  suspected  her  of  beguiling  Putois 
and  keeping  him  out  of  sight  for  fear  of  losing  him 
or  rendering  him  more  exacting.  And  she  men- 
tally pronounced  her  overselfish.  Many  a  judg- 
ment generally  accepted  and  ratified  by  history  has 
no  better  foundation." 

"That  is  quite  true,"  said  Pauline. 

"What  is  true?"  asked  Zoe,  who  was  half  asleep. 

"That  the  judgments  of  history  are  often  false. 
I  remember,  papa,  that  you  said  one  day:  *It  was 
very  naive  of  Madame  Roland  to  appeal  to  an  im- 
partial posterity,  and  not  to  see  that  if  her  con- 
temporaries were  malevolent,  those  who  came  after 
them  would  be  equally  so.'  " 

"Pauline,"  inquired  Mademoiselle  Zoe,  sternly, 
"what  has  that  to  do  with  the  story  of  Putois?" 

"A  great  deal,  aunt." 

"I  don't  see  it." 

Monsieur  Bergeret,  who  did  not  object  to  di- 
gressions, replied  to  his  daughter: 

"If  every  injustice  were  ultimately  repaired  in 
this  world,  it  would  never  have  been  necessary  to 
invent  another  for  the  purpose.  How  can  poster- 
ity judge  the  dead  justly?     Into  the  shades  whither 


PUTOIS  63 

they  pass  can  they  be  pursued,  can  they  there  be 
questioned?  As  soon  as  it  is  possible  to  regard 
them  justly  they  are  forgotten.  But  is  it  possible 
ever  to  be  just?  What  is  justice?  At  any  rate, 
in  the  end,  Madame  Cornouiller  was  obliged  to 
admit  that  my  mother  was  not  deceiving  her,  and 
that  Putois  was  not  to  be  found. 

"Nevertheless,  she  did  not  give  up  looking  for 
him.  Of  all  her  relations,  friends,  neighbours, 
servants  and  tradesmen  she  inquired  whether  they 
knew  Putois.  Only  two  or  three  replied  that  they 
had  never  heard  of  him.  The  majority  thought 
they  had  seen  him.  'I  have  heard  the  name,'  said 
the  cook,  'but  I  can't  put  a  face  to  it.'  'Putois  I 
Why!  I  know  him  very  well,'  said  the  road  sur- 
veyor, scratching  his  ear.  'But  I  couldn't  exactly 
point  him  out  to  you.'  The  most  precise  informa- 
tion came  from  Monsieur  Blaise,  the  registrar, 
who  declared  that  he  had  employed  Putois  to  chop 
wood  in  his  yard,  from  the  19th  until  the  23rd  of 
October,  in  the  year  of  the  comet. 

"One  morning,  Madame  Cornouiller  rushed 
panting  into  my  father's  study:  'I  have  just  seen 
Putois,'  she  exclaimed.  'Ah !  Yes.  Pve  just  seen 
him.  Do  I  think  so?  But  I  am  sure.  He  was 
creeping  along  by  Monsieur  Tenchant's  wall.  He 
turned  into  the  Rue  des  Abbesses;  he  was  walking 


64  PUTOIS 

quickly.  Then  I  lost  him.  Was  it  really  he? 
There's  no  doubt  of  it.  A  man  about  fifty,  thin, 
bent  looking  like  a  loafer,  wearing  a  dirty  blouse.* 
'Such  is  indeed  Putois'  description,'  said  my  father. 
*AhI  I  told  you  so!  Besides,  I  called  him.  I 
cried:  Putois!  and  he  turned  round.  That  is 
what  detectives  do  when  they  want  to  make  sure 
of  the  identity  of  a  criminal  they  are  in  search  of. 
Didn't  I  tell  you  it  was  he!  ...  I  managed  to  get 
on  his  track,  your  Putois.  Well!  he  is  very  evil 
looking.  And  it  was  extremely  imprudent  of  you 
and  your  wife  to  employ  him.  I  can  read  charac- 
ter; and  though  I  only  saw  his  back,  I  would  swear 
that  he  is  a  thief,  and  perhaps  a  murderer.  His 
ears  are  ragged;  and  that  is  an  infallible  sign.' 
*Ah!  you  noticed  that  his  ears  were  ragged?' 
'Nothing  escapes  me.  My  dear  Monsieur  Ber- 
geret,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  murdered  with  your 
wife  and  children,  don't  let  Putois  come  into  your 
house  again.  Take  my  advice  and  have  all  your 
locks  changed.' 

"Now  a  few  days  later  it  happened  that  Madame 
Cornouiller  had  three  melons  stolen  from  her 
kitchen  garden.  As  the  thief  was  not  discovered, 
she  suspected  Putois.  The  gendarmes  were  sum- 
moned to  Monplaisir,  and  their  statements  con- 
firmed    Madame     Cornouiller's    suspicions.     Just 


PUTOIS  6s 

then  gangs  of  thieves  were  prowling  around  the 
gardens  of  the  countryside.  But  this  time  the  theft 
seemed  to  have  been  committed  by  a  single  person, 
and  with  extraordinary  skill.  He  had  not  damaged 
anything,  and  had  left  no  footprint  on  the  moist 
ground.  The  delinquent  could  be  none  other  than 
Putois.  Such  was  the  opinion  of  the  police  ser- 
geant who  had  long  known  all  about  Putois,  and 
was  making  every  effort  to  put  his  hand  on  the 
fellow. 

"In  the  Journal  de  Saint-Omer  appeared  an  ar- 
ticle on  the  three  melons  of  Madame  Cornouiller. 
It  contained  a  description  of  Putois,  according  to 
information  obtained  in  the  town.  'His  forehead 
is  low,'  said  the  newspaper,  'he  is  wall-eyed;  his 
look  is  shifty,  he  has  a  crow's  foot  on  the  temple, 
high  cheek-bones  red  and  shiny.  His  ears  are 
ragged.  Thin,  slightly  bent,  weak  in  appearance, 
in  reality  he  is  extraordinarily  strong:  he  can  easily 
bend  a  five-franc  piece  between  his  thumb  and  fore- 
finger. 

'*  'There  were  good  reasons,'  said  the  newspaper, 
'for  attributing  to  him  a  long  series  of  robberies 
perpetrated  with  marvellous  skill.' 

"Putois  was  the  talk  of  the  town.  One  day  it 
was  said  that  he  had  been  arrested  and  committed 
to  prison.     But  it  was   soon  discovered  that   the 


ee  puTois 

man  who  had  been  taken  for  Putois  was  a  pedlar 
named  Rigobert.  As  nothing  could  be  proved 
against  him,  he  was  discharged  after  a  fortnight's 
precautionary  detention.  And  still  Putois  could 
not  be  found.  Madame  Cornouiller  fell  a  victim 
to  another  robbery  still  more  audacious  than  the 
first.  Three  silver  teaspoons  were  stolen  from  her 
sideboard. 

"She  recognized  the  hand  of  Putois,  had  a  chain 
put  on  her  bedroom  door  and  lay  awake  at  night." 


Ill 

BOUT  ten  o'clock,  when  Pauline  had 
gone  to  bed,  Mademoiselle  Bergeret 
said  to  her  brother: 

''Don't    forget   to    tell   how   Pu- 
^_____^  tois  seduced  Madame  Cornouiller's 
cook." 

"I  was  just  thinking  of  It,  sister,"  replied  her 
brother.  "To  omit  that  Incident  would  be  to  omit 
the  best  part  of  the  story.  But  we  must  come  to  it 
in  its  proper  place.  The  police  made  a  careful 
search  for  Putols  but  they  did  not  find  him.  When 
it  was  known  that  he  could  not  be  found,  every 
one  made  it  a  point  of  honour  to  discover  him;  and 
the  malicious  succeeded.  As  there  were  not  a  few 
malicious  folk  at  Saint-Omer  and  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, Putols  was  observed  at  one  and  the  same  time 
in  street,  field  and  wood.  Thus,  another  trait  was 
added  to  his  character.  To  him  was  attributed 
that  gift  of  ubiquity  which  Is  possessed  by  so  many 
popular  heroes.  A  being  capable  of  travelling  long 
distances  in  a  moment,  and  of  appearing  suddenly 
in  the  place  where  he  Is  least  expected,  is  naturally 
alarming.     Putols  was  the  terror  of  Saint-Omer. 


68  PUTOIS 

Madame  Cornouiller,  convinced  that  Putois  had 
robbed  her  of  three  melons  and  three  teaspoons, 
barricaded  herself  at  Monplaisir  and  lived  in  per- 
petual fear.  Bars,  bolts  and  locks  were  powerless 
to  reassure  her.  Putois  was  for  her  a  terribly 
subtle  creature,  who  could  pass  through  closed 
doors.  A  domestic  event  redoubled  her  alarm. 
Her  cook  was  seduced;  and  a  time  came  when  she 
could  conceal  her  fault  no  longer.  But  she  ob- 
stinately refused  to  indicate  her  betrayer." 

"Her  name  was  Gudule,"  said  Mademoiselle 
Zoe. 

"Her  name  was  Gudule;  and  she  was  thought 
to  be  protected  against  the  perils  of  love  by  a  long 
and  forked  beard.  A  beard,  which  suddenly  ap- 
peared on  the  chin  of  that  saintly  royal  maiden 
venerated  at  Prague,  protected  her  virginity.  A 
beard,  which  was  no  longer  young,  sufficed  not  to 
protect  the  virtue  of  Gudule.  Madame  Cornouiller 
urged  Gudule  to  utter  the  name  of  the  man  who 
had  betrayed  her  and  then  abandoned  her  to  dis- 
tress. Gudule  burst  into  tears,  but  refused  to 
speak.  Threats  and  entreaties  were  alike  useless. 
Madame  Cornouiller  made  a  long  and  minute  in- 
quiry. She  diplomatically  questioned  her  neigh- 
bours— ^both  men  and  women — the  tradesmen,  the 


PUTOIS  69 

gardener,  the  road  surveyor,  the  gendarmes;  noth- 
ing put  her  on  the  track  of  the  culprit.  Again  she 
endeavoured  to  extract  a  full  confession  from 
Gudule.  *In  your  own  interest,  Gudule,  tell  me 
who  it  is.'  Gudule  remained  silent.  Suddenly 
Madame  Cornouiller  had  a  flash  of  enlightenment: 
*It  is  Putois!'  The  cook  wept  and  said  nothing. 
*It  is  Putois!  Why  did  I  not  guess  it  before?  It 
is  Putois!  You  unhappy  girl!  Oh  you  poor,  un- 
happy girl!' 

"Henceforth  Madame  Cornouiller  was  persuaded 
that  Putois  was  the  father  of  her  cook's  child. 
Every  one  at  Saint-Omer,  from  the  President  of  the 
Tribunal  to  the  lamplighter's  mongrel  dog,  knew 
Gudule  and  her  basket.  The  news  that  Putois  had 
seduced  Gudule  filled  the  town  with  laughter,  aston- 
ishment and  admiration.  Putois  was  hailed  as  an 
irresistible  lady-killer  and  the  lover  of  the  eleven 
thousand  virgins.  On  these  slight  grounds  there 
was  ascribed  to  him  the  paternity  of  five  or  six 
other  children  born  that  year,  who,  considering  the 
happiness  that  awaited  them  and  the  joy  they 
brought  to  their  mothers,  would  have  done  just  as 
well  not  to  put  in  an  appearance.  Among  others 
were  included  the  servant  of  Monsieur  Marechal, 
who  kept  the  general  shop  with  the  sign  of  'Le 


70  PUTOIS 

Rendezvous  des  Pecheurs,'  a  baker's  errand  girl, 
and  the  little  cripple  of  the  Pont-Biquet,  who  had 
all  fallen  victims  to  Putois'  charms.  'The  mon- 
ster!' cried  the  gossips. 

"Thus  Putois,  invisible  satyr,  threatened  with 
woes  irretrievable  all  the  maidens  of  a  town, 
wherein,  according  to  the  oldest  inhabitants,  vir- 
gins had  from  time  immemorial  lived  free  from 
danger. 

"Though  celebrated  thus  throughout  the  city  and 
its  neighbourhood,  he  continued  in  a  subtle  manner 
to  be  associated  especially  with  our  home.  He 
passed  by  our  door,  and  it  was  believed  that  from 
time  to  time  he  climbed  over  our  garden  wall.  He 
was  never  seen  face  to  face.  But  we  were  con- 
stantly recognizing  his  shadow,  his  voice,  his  foot- 
prints. More  than  once,  in  the  twilight,  we 
thought  we  saw  his  back  at  the  bend  of  the  road. 
My  sister  and  I  were  changing  our  opinions  of  him. 
He  remained  wicked  and  malevolent,  but  he  was 
becoming  child-like  and  simple.  He  was  growing 
less  real,  and,  if  I  may  say  so,  more  poetical.  He 
was  about  to  be  included  in  the  naive  cycle  of  chil- 
dren's fairy  tales.  He  was  turning  into  Croque- 
mitaine,  into  Pere  Fouettard,  into  the  dustman  who 
shuts  little  children's  eyes  at  night.  He  was  not 
that  sprite  who  by  night  entangles  the  colt's  tail  in 


PUTOIS  71 

the  stable.  Not  so  rustic  or  so  charming,  yet  he 
was  just  as  frankly  mischievous ;  he  used  to  drav  ink 
moustaches  on  my  sister's  dolls.  In  our  beds  we 
used  to  hear  him  before  we  went  to  sleep:  he  was 
caterwauling  on  the  roofs  with  the  cats,  he  was 
barking  with  the  dogs ;  he  was  groaning  in  the  mill- 
hopper;  he  was  mimicking  the  songs  of  belated 
drunkards  in  the  street. 

"What  rendered  Putois  present  and  familiar  to 
us,  what  interested  us  in  him  was  that  his  memory 
was  associated  with  all  the  objects  that  surrounded 
us.  Zoe's  dolls,  my  exercise-books,  the  pages  of 
which  he  had  so  often  blotted  and  crumpled,  the 
garden  wall  over  which  we  had  seen  his  red  eyes 
gleam  in  the  shadow,  the  blue  flower-pot  one  win- 
ter's night  cracked  by  him  if  it  were  not  by  the 
frost;  trees,  streets,  benches,  everything  reminded 
us  of  Putois,  our  Putois,  the  children's  Putois,  a 
being  local  and  mythical.  In  grace  and  in  poetry 
he  fell  far  short  of  the  most  awkward  wild  man 
of  the  woods,  of  the  uncouthest  Sicilian  or  Thes- 
salian  faun.  But  he  was  a  demi-god  all  the 
same. 

"To  our  father  Putois'  character  appeared  very 
differently,  it  was  symbolical  and  had  a  philosophi- 
cal signification.  Our  father  had  a  vast  pity  for 
humanity.     He  did  not  think  men  very  reasonable. 


72  PUTOIS 

Their  errors,  when  they  were  not  cruel,  entertained 
and  amused  him.  The  belief  in  Putois  interested 
him  as  a  compendium  and  abridgment  of  all  the 
beliefs  of  humanity.  Our  father  was  ironical  and 
sarcastic;  he  spoke  of  Putois  as  if  he  were  an  actual 
being.  He  was  sometimes  so  persistent,  and  de- 
scribed each  detail  with  such  precision,  that  our 
mother  was  quite  astonished.  'Anyone  would  say 
that  you  are  serious,  my  love,'  she  would  say 
frankly,  'and  yet  you  know  perfectly  .  .  .'  He  re- 
plied gravely,  'The  whole  of  Saint-Omer  believes 
in  the  existence  of  Putois.  Could  I  be  a  good  citi- 
zen and  deny  it?  One  must  think  well  before  sup- 
pressing an  article  of  universal  belief.' 

"Only  very  clear-headed  persons  are  troubled  by 
such  scruples.  At  heart  my  father  was  a  follower 
of  Gassendi.  He  compromised  between  his  indi- 
vidual views  and  those  of  the  public:  with  the  Saint- 
Omerites  he  believed  in  the  existence  of  Putois,  but 
he  did  not  admit  his  direct  intervention  in  the  theft 
of  the  melons  and  the  seduction  of  the  cook.  In 
short,  like  a  good  citizen  he  professed  his  faith  in 
the  existence  of  Putois,  and  he  dispensed  with  Putois 
when  explaining  the  events  which  happened  in  the 
town.  Wherefore,  in  this  case  as  in  all  others,  he 
proved  himself  a  good  man  and  a  thoughtful. 

"As  for  our  mother,  she  felt  herself  in  a  way  re- 


PUTOIS  73 

sponsible  for  the  birth  of  Putois,  and  she  was  right. 
For  in  reality  Putois  was  born  of  our  mother's  tara- 
diddle, as  Caliban  was  born  of  a  poet's  invention. 
The  two  crimes,  of  course,  differed  greatly  in  magni- 
tude, and  my  mother's  guilt  was  not  so  great  as 
Shakespeare's.  Nevertheless,  she  was  alarmed  and 
dismayed  at  seeing  so  tiny  a  falsehood  grow  indefi- 
nitely, and  so  trifling  a  deception  meet  with  a  success 
so  prodigious  that  it  stopped  nowhere,  spread 
throughout  the  whole  town,  and  threatened  to 
spread  throughout  the  whole  world.  One  day  she 
grew  pale,  believing  that  she  was  about  to  see  her 
fib  rise  in  person  before  her.  On  that  day,  her 
servant,  who  was  new  to  the  house  and  neighbour- 
hood, came  and  told  her  that  a  man  was  asking  for 
her.  He  wanted,  he  said,  to  speak  to  Madame. 
'What  kind  of  a  man  is  he?'  'A  man  in  a  blouse. 
He  looked  like  a  country  labourer.'  'Did  he  give 
his  name?'  'Yes,  Madame.'  'Well,  what  is  it?' 
'Putois.'  'Did  he  tell  you  that  that  was  his  name?' 
'Putois,  yes  Madame.'  'And  he  is  here?'  'Yes, 
Madame.  He  is  waiting  in  the  kitchen.'  'You 
have  seen  him?'  'Yes,  Madame.'  'What  does  he 
want?'  'He  did  not  say.  He  will  only  tell 
Madame.'     'Go  and  ask  him.' 

"When    the    servant    returned    to    the    kitchen, 
Putois  was  no  longer  there.     This  meeting  between 


74  PUTOIS 

Putois  and  the  new  servant  was  never  explained. 
But  I  think  that  from  that  day  my  mother  began 
to  believe  that  Putois  might  possibly  exist,  and  that 
perhaps  she  had  not  invented." 


RIQUET 


TO  A.  J.-A.  COULANGHEON 


RIQUET 

UARTER-DAY  had  come.  With 
his  sister  and  daughter,  Monsieur 
Bergeret  was  leaving  the  dilapi- 
dated old  house  in  the  Rue  de  Seine 
to  take  up  his  abode  in  a  modern 
flat  in  the  Rue  de  Vaugirard.  Such  was  the  de- 
cision of  Zoe  and  the  Fates. 

During  the  long  hours  of  the  morning,  Riquet 
wandered  sadly  through  the  devastated  rooms. 
His  most  cherished  habits  were  upset.  Strange 
men,  badly  dressed,  rude  and  foul-mouthed,  dis- 
turbed his  repose.  They  penetrated  even  to  the 
kitchen  where  they  stepped  into  his  dish  of  biscuit 
and  his  bowl  of  fresh  water.  The  chairs  were  car- 
ried off  as  fast  as  he  curled  himself  up  on  them; 
the  carpets  were  pulled  roughly  from  under  his 
weary  limbs.  There  was  no  abiding-place  for  him, 
not  even  in  his  own  home. 

To  his  credit,  be  it  said,  that  at  first  he  at- 
tempted resistance.  When  the  cistern  was  carried 
off  he  barked  furiously  at  the  enemy.  But  no  one 
responded  to  his  appeal;  no  one  encouraged  him, 
there  was  no  doubt  about  it  his  efforts  were  re- 

77 


78  RIQUET 

garded  with  disapproval.  Mademoiselle  Zoe  said 
to  him  sharply:  "Be  quiet!"  And  Mademoiselle 
Pauline  added:     "Riquet,  you  are  silly!" 

Henceforth  he  would  abstain  from  useless  warn- 
ings. He  would  cease  to  strive  alone  for  the  pub- 
lic weal.  In  silence  he  deplored  the  devastation 
of  the  household.  From  room  to  room  he  sought 
in  vain  for  a  little  quiet.  When  the  furniture  re- 
movers penetrated  into  a  room  where  he  had  taken 
refuge,  he  prudently  hid  beneath  an  as  yet  unmo- 
lested table  or  chest  of  drawers.  But  this  precau- 
tion proved  worse  than  useless;  for  soon  the  piece 
of  furniture  tottered  over  him,  rose,  then  fell  with 
a  crash  threatening  to  crush  him.  Terrified,  with 
his  hair  all  turned  up  the  wrong  way,  he  fled  to 
another  refuge  no  safer  than  the  first. 

But  these  inconveniences  and  even  dangers  were 
as  nothing  to  the  agony  he  was  suffering  at  heart. 
His  sentiments  were  the  most  deeply  affected. 

The  household  furniture  he  regarded  not  as 
things  inert,  but  as  living  benevolent  creatures,  be- 
neficent spirits,  whose  departure  foreshadowed 
cruel  misfortunes.  Dishes,  sugar-basins,  pots  and 
pans,  all  the  kitchen  divinities;  arm-chairs,  carpets, 
cushions,  all  the  fetishes  of  the  hearth,  its  lares  and 
its  domestic  gods  had  vanished.     He  could  not  be- 


RIQUET  79 

lieve  that  so  great  a  disaster  would  ever  be  repaired. 
And  sorrow  filled  his  little  heart  to  overflowing. 
Fortunately  Riquet's  heart  resembled  human  hearts 
in  being  easily  distracted  and  quick  to  forget  its 
misfortunes. 

During  the  long  absence  of  the  thirsty  workmen, 
when  old  Angellque's  broom  raised  ancient  dust 
from  the  floor,  Riquet  breathed  an  odour  of  mice 
and  watched  the  flight  of  a  spider;  thus  was  his 
versatile  mind  diverted.  But  he  soon  relapsed  into 
sadness. 

On  the  day  of  departure,  when  he  beheld  things 
growing  hourly  worse  and  worse,  he  grew  des- 
perate. It  seemed  to  him  above  all  things  disas- 
trous when  he  saw  the  linen  being  piled  in  dark 
cases.  Pauline  with  eager  haste  was  putting  her 
frock  into  a  trunk.  He  turned  away  from  her,  as 
if  she  were  doing  something  wrong.  He  shrank 
up  against  the  wall  and  thought  to  himself:  "Now 
the  worst  has  come ;  this  is  the  end  of  everything." 
Then,  whether  it  were  tbat  he  believed  things 
ceased  to  exist  when  he  did  not  see  them,  or  whether 
he  was  simply  avoiding  a  painful  sight,  he  took  care 
not  to  look  in  Pauline's  direction.  It  chanced  that 
as  she  was  passing  to  and  fro  she  noticed  Riquet's 
attitude.     It  was  sad:  but  to  her  it  seemed  funny, 


8o  RIQUET 

and  she  began  to  laugh.  Then,  still  laughing,  she 
called  out:  "Come  here!  Riquet,  come  to  mel" 
But  he  did  not  stir  from  his  corner,  and  would  not 
even  turn  his  head.  He  was  not  then  in  the  mood 
to  caress  his  young  mistress,  and,  through  some  se- 
cret instinct,  through  a  kind  of  presentiment,  he 
was  afraid  of  approaching  the  gaping  trunk. 
Pauline  called  him  several  times.  Then,  as  he  did 
not  respond,  she  went  and  took  him  up  in  her  arms. 
"How  unhappy  we  are!"  she  said  to  him;  "what  is 
wrong  then?"  Her  tone  was  ironical.  Riquet  did 
not  understand  irony.  He  lay  in  Pauline's  arms, 
sad  and  inert,  affecting  to  see  nothing  and  to  hear 
nothing.  "Riquet,  look  at  me!"  She  said  it  three 
times  and  three  times  in  vain.  Then,  pretending  to 
be  in  a  rage:  "Silly  creature,"  she  cried,  "in  with 
you";  and  she  threw  him  into  the  trunk  and  shut 
the  lid  on  him.  At  that  moment  her  aunt  having 
called  her,  she  went  out  of  the  room,  leaving  Riquet 
in  the  trunk. 

He  was  seized  with  wild  alarm;  for  he  was  very 
far  from  supposing  that  he  had  been  playfully 
thrown  into  the  trunk  for  a  mere  joke.  Esteeming 
his  situation  about  as  bad  as  it  could  be,  he  was 
desirous  not  to  make  it  worse  by  any  imprudence. 
So  he  remained  motionless  for  a  few  moments,  hold- 
ing his  breath.     Then  he  deemed  it  expedient  to 


RIQUET  8 1 

explore  his  dark  prison.  With  his  paws  he  felt  the 
skirts  and  the  linen  on  to  which  he  had  been  so 
cruelly  precipitated,  endeavouring  to  find  some  way 
out  of  this  terrible  place.  He  had  been  thus  en- 
gaged for  two  or  three  minutes,  when  he  was  called 
by  Monsieur  Bergeret,  who  had  been  getting  ready 
to  go  out. 

"Riquetl  Riquet!  Come  for  a  walk  on  the 
quays,  that  is  the  land  of  glory.  True  they  have 
disfigured  it  by  erecting  a  railway  station  of  hideous 
proportions  and  striking  ugliness.  Architecture  is 
a  lost  art.  They  have  pulled  down  a  nice  looking 
house  at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  du  Bac.  They  will 
doubtless  put  some  unsightly  building  in  its  place. 
I  trust  that  at  least  our  architects  may  abstain  from 
introducing  on  to  the  Quai  d'Orsay  that  barbarous 
style  of  which  they  have  given  such  a  horrid  ex- 
ample at  the  corner  of  the  Rue  Washington  and  the 
Champs  filysees!  .  .  .  Riquet!  Riquet!  Come 
for  a  walk  on  the  quays.  That  is  a  glorious  land. 
But  architecture  has  deteriorated  sadly  since  the 
days  of  Gabriel  and  of  Louis.  .  .  .  Where  is  the 
dog?  .  .   .   Riquet!     Riquet?" 

The  sound  of  Monsieur  Bergeret's  voice  was  a 
great  consolation  to  Riquet.  He  replied  by  mak- 
ing a  noise  with  his  paws,  scratching  frantically 
against  the  wicker  sides  of  the  trunk. 


82  RIQUET 

"Where  is  the  dog?"  her  father  asked  Pauline 
as  she  was  returning  with  a  pile  of  linen  in  her 
arms. 

"He  is  in  the  trunk,  Papa." 

"What,  in  the  trunk  1  Why  is  he  there?"  asked 
Monsieur  Bergeret. 

"Because  he  was  silly,"  replied  Pauline. 

Monsieur  Bergeret  liberated  his  friend.  Riquet 
followed  him  into  the  hall,  wagging  his  tail.  Then 
a  sudden  thought  occurred  to  him.  He  went  back 
into  the  room,  ran  up  to  Pauline  and  rubbed  against 
her  skirt.  And  not  until  he  had  wildly  caressed 
her  as  evidence  of  his  loyalty  did  he  rejoin  his 
master  on  the  staircase.  He  would  have  felt  him- 
self deficient  in  wisdom  and  religious  feeling  had  he 
failed  to  display  these  signs  of  affection  to  one  who 
had  been  so  powerful  as  to  plunge  him  into  a  deep 
trunk. 

In  the  street.  Monsieur  Bergeret  and  his  dog 
beheld  the  sad  sight  of  their  household  furniture 
scattered  over  the  pavement.  The  removers  had 
gone  off  to  the  public-house  round  the  corner,  leav- 
ing the  plate-glass  mirror  of  Mademoiselle  Zoe's 
wardrobe  to  reflect  the  passing  procession  of  girls, 
workmen,  shopkeepers,  and  Beaux  Arts  students,  of 
drays,  carts  and  cabs,  and  the  chemist's  shop  with 


RIQUET  83 

its  bottles  and  its  serpents  of  iEsculapius.  Lean- 
ing against  a  post  was  Monsieur  Bergeret  senior, 
smiling  in  his  frame,  mild,  pale  and  delicate  looking, 
with  his  hair  ruffled.  With  affectionate  respect  the 
son  contemplated  his  parent  whom  he  moved  away 
from  the  post.  He  likewise  lifted  out  of  harm's 
way  Zoe's  little  table,  which  looked  ashamed  at 
finding  itself  in  the  street. 

Meanwhile  Riquet  was  patting  his  master's  legs 
with  his  paws,  looking  up  at  him  with  sorrowing 
beautiful  eyes,  which  seemed  to  say: 

"Thou,  who  wert  once  so  rich  and  so  powerful, 
canst  thou  have  become  poor?  Canst  thou  have 
lost  thy  power,  O  my  Master?  Thou  permittest 
men  clothed  in  vile  rags  to  invade  thy  sitting-room, 
thy  bedroom,  thy  dining-room,  to  throw  themselves 
upon  thy  furniture  and  pull  it  out  of  doors,  to  drag 
down  the  staircase  thy  deep  arm-chair,  thy  chair 
and  mine,  for  in  it  we  repose  side  by  side  in  the  eve- 
ning and  sometimes  in  the  morning  too.  I  heard 
it  groan  in  the  arms  of  those  tatterdemalions;  that 
chair  which  is  a  fetish  and  a  benignant  spirit. 
Thou  didst  offer  no  resistance  to  the  invaders.  But 
if  thou  dost  no  longer  possess  any  of  those  genii 
who  once  filled  thy  dwelling,  if  thou  hast  lost  all, 
even  those  little  divinities,  which  thou  didst  put  on 


84  RIQUET 

in  the  morning  when  getting  out  of  bed,  those  slip- 
pers which  I  used  to  bite  in  my  play,  if  thou  art 
indigent  and  poor,  O  my  Master,  then  what  will 
become  of  me?" 


THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET 


THE  MEDITATIONS   OF  RIQUET 

I 


EN,  beasts  and  stones  grow  great  as 
they  come  near  and  loom  enormous 
when  they  are  upon  me.  It  is  not 
so  with  me.  I  remain  equally  great 
wheresoever  I  am. 


II 


When  my  master  places  for  me  beneath  the  table 
the  food  which  he  was  about  to  put  into  his  own 
mouth,  it  is  in  order  that  he  may  tempt  me  and  that 
he  may  punish  me  if  I  yield  to  temptation.  For  I 
cannot  believe  that  he  would  deny  himself  for  my 
sake. 


Ill 


The  smell  of  dogs  is  sweet  in  the  nostrils. 

87 


88       THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET 

IV 

My  master  keeps  me  warm  when  I  lie  behind  him 
in  his  chair.  It  is  because  he  is  a  god.  In  front  of 
the  fire-place  is  a  hot  stone.     That  stone  is  divine. 


I  speak  when  I  please.  From  my  master's 
mouth  proceed  likewise  sounds  which  make  sense. 
But  his  meaning  is  not  so  clear  as  that  expressed  by 
the  sounds  of  my  voice.  Every  sound  that  I  utter 
has  a  meaning.  From  my  master's  lips  come  forth 
many  idle  noises.  It  is  difficult  but  necessary  to 
divine  the  thoughts  of  the  master. 

VI 

To  eat  is  good.  To  have  eaten  is  better.  For 
the  enemy  who  lieth  in  wait  to  take  your  food  is 
quick  and  crafty. 

VII 

All  is  flux  and  reflux.     I  alone  remain. 


THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET      89 

VIII 

I  am  in  the  centre  of  all  things;  men,  beasts  and 
things,  friendly  and  adverse,  are  ranged  about  me. 


IX 


In  sleep  one  beholdeth  men,  dogs,  horses,  trees, 
forms  pleasant  and  unpleasant.  When  one  awaketh 
these  forms  have  vanished. 


X 

Reflection.  I  love  my  master,  Bergeret,  because 
he  is  powerful  and  terrible. 

XI 

An  action  for  which  one  has  been  beaten  is  a  bad 
action.  An  action  for  which  one  has  received 
caresses  or  food  is  a  good  action. 

XII 

At  nightfall  evil  powers  prowl  round  the  house. 


90      THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET 

I  bark  in  order  that  my  master  may  be  warned  and 
drive  them  away. 

XIII 

Prayer.  O  my  master,  Bergeret,  god  of  courage, 
I  adore  thee.  When  thou  art  terrible,  be  thou 
praised.  When  thou  art  kind  be  thou  praised.  I 
crouch  at  thy  feet:  I  lick  thy  hands.  When,  seated 
before  thy  table  spread,  thou  devourest  meats  in 
abundance,  thou  art  very  great  and  very  beautiful. 
Very  great  art  thou  and  very  beautiful  when,  strik- 
ing fire  out  of  a  thin  splint  of  wood,  thou  changest 
night  into  day.  Keep  me  in  thine  house  and  keep 
out  every  other  dog.  And  thou,  Angelique,  the 
cook,  divinity  good  and  great,  I  fear  thee  and  I 
venerate  thee  in  order  that  thou  mayest  give  me 
much  to  eat. 

XIV 

A  dog  who  lacketh  piety  towards  men  and  who 
scorneth  the  fetishes  assembled  in  his  master's  house 
liveth  a  miserable  and  a  wandering  life. 

XV 

One  day,  from  a  broken  pitcher,  filled  with  water 


THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET      91 

which  was  being  carried  across  the  parlour,  water 
ran  on  to  the  pohshed  floor.  A  thrashing  must 
have  been  the  punishment  of  that  dirty  pitcher. 

XVI 

Men  possess  the  divine  power  of  opening  all 
doors.  I  by  myself  am  only  able  to  open  a  few. 
Doors  are  great  fetishes  which  do  not  readily  obey 
dogs. 

XVII 

The  life  of  a  dog  is  full  of  danger.  If  he  would 
escape  suffering  he  must  be  ever  on  the  watch,  dur- 
ing meals  and  even  during  sleep. 

XVIII 

It  is  impossible  to  know  whether  one  has  acted 
well  towards  men.  One  must  worship  them  with- 
out seeking  to  understand  them.  Their  wisdom  is 
mysterious. 

XIX 

Invocation.     O  Fear,  Fear  august  and  maternal, 


92       THE  MEDITATIONS  OF  RIQUET 

Fear  sacred  and  salutary,  possess  me,  in  danger  fill 
me,  in  order  that  I  may  avoid  that  which  is  harm- 
ful, lest,  casting  myself  upon  the  enemy,  I  suffer  for 
my  imprudence. 


XX 


Vehicles  there  are  which  horses  pull  through  the 
street.  They  are  terrible.  Other  vehicles  there 
are  which  move  themselves  breathing  loudly. 
These  are  also  fearful.  Men  in  rags  are  detest- 
able, likewise  such  as  carry  baskets  on  their  heads 
or  roll  casks.  I  do  not  love  children  who  utter 
loud  cries  and  flee  from  and  pursue  each  other 
swiftly  in  the  streets.  The  world  is  full  of  hostile 
and  dreadful  things. 


THE  NECKTIE 


TO  MADAME  FELIX  DECORI 


THE  NECKTIE 

ONSIEUR  BERGERET  was  ham- 
mering nails  into  the  wall  of  his  new 
flat.  Becoming  aware  that  he  was 
enjoying  the  work,  he  began  to  won- 
der why  it  gave  him  pleasure  to 
knock  nails  into  the  wall.  He  found  the  reason  and 
lost  the  pleasure.  For  the  pleasure  had  consisted 
in  hammering  the  nails  without  thinking  of  the  rea- 
son of  anything.  Then,  as  he  hung  his  father's 
portrait  in  the  place  of  honour  in  the  drawing- 
room,  he  meditated  on  the  sorrows  of  a  philosophi- 
cal mind. 

"It  tips  forward  too  much,"  said  Zoe. 
"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.     It  looks  as  if  it  were  going  to 
fall." 

Monsieur    Bergeret    shortened    the    cord    from 
which  the  picture  hung. 

"It  isn't  straight,"  said  Mademoiselle  Bergeret. 
"Is  it  not?" 

"No  it  hangs  perceptibly  too  much  to  the  left." 
Monsieur  Bergeret  carefully  readjusted  it. 
"And  now  how  is  it?" 

95 


96  THE  NECKTIE 

"It  hangs  too  much  to  the  right." 

Monsieur  Bergeret  did  his  best  to  bring  the 
picture-frame  into  line  with  the  horizon,  and  then 
drew  back  three  steps  in  order  to  inspect  his  handi- 
work. 

"I  think  it  is  right,"  he  said. 

"It  is  all  right  now,"  said  Zoe.  "It  worries  me 
when  a  picture  isn't  straight." 

"You  are  not  the  only  one  whom  it  worries, 
Zoe.  There  are  many  who  feel  like  you.  Any 
irregularity  in  simple  matters  is  irritating  because 
it  is  so  easy  to  see  the  difference  between  what  is 
and  what  ought  to  be.  Some  people  cannot  bear 
to  sec  a  badly  hung  wall-paper.  The  conditions 
of  our  humanity  are  indeed  terrible  and  atrocious 
when  a  crooked  picture  frame  upsets  us." 

"There  is  nothing  extraordinary  in  that,  Lucien. 
Little  things  occupy  a  large  place  in  life.  You 
yourself  are  constantly  interested  in   trifles." 

"All  the  years  that  I  have  been  gazing  at  this 
portrait  I  have  never  remarked  before  what  strikes 
me  at  this  moment.  I  have  just  perceived  that  this 
portrait  of  our  father  is  the  portrait  of  a  young 
man." 

"Why,  of  course,  Lucien.  When  the  artist 
Gosselin  on  his  return  from  Rome,  painted  father, 
he  was  not  more  than  thirty." 


THE  NECKTIE  97 

"True,  sister.  But  when  I  was  a  boy  the  por- 
trait appeared  to  me  that  of  a  man  well  on  in  years, 
and  that  impression  clung  to  me.  Now  it  has  sud- 
denly vanished.  The  colours  of  Gosselin's  picture 
have  lost  their  brightness;  the  flesh  has  assumed 
an  amber  tint  under  the  varnish;  the  lines  have 
grown  vague,  merging  into  shadow  of  an  olive  hue. 
Our  father's  face  seems  to  retreat  further  and  fur- 
ther into  a  far-distant  background.  But  that 
smooth  forehead,  those  large  bright  eyes,  the  clear 
pure  line  of  the  delicate  cheeks,  the  black  hair  thick 
and  shining,  belong,  I  see  it  now  for  the  first  time, 
to  a  man  in  the  flower  of  his  youth." 

"Certainly,"   said  Zoe. 

"His  dress  and  the  style  of  his  hair  are  those  of 
the  old  days  when  he  was  young.  He  wears  his 
hair  ruffled.  His  bottle-green  coat  has  a  high  col- 
lar, he  wears  a  nankin  waistcoat  and  his  broad  black 
silk  stock  tie  is  wound  three  times  round  his  neck." 

"Ten  years  ago  old  men  were  still  to  be  seen 
wearing  ties  like  that,"  said  Zoe. 

"Possibly,"  said  Monsieur  Bergeret.  "But  it  is 
certain  that  Monsieur  Malorey  never  wore  any 
others." 

"You  mean  the  Dean  of  the  Faculte  des  Lettres 
at  Salnt-Omer,  Luclen.  ...  It  Is  thirty  years  and 
more  since  his  death." 


98  THE  NECKTIE 

"He  was  over  sixty,  Zoe,  when  I  was  less  than 
twelve — but  it  was  then  that  I  committed  a  most 
daring  outrage  on  his  tic." 

"I  think  I  remember  that  rather  stupid  joke," 
said  Zoe. 

"No.  Zoe,  you  do  not  remember  my  joke.  If 
you  did  you  would  not  speak  of  it  like  that.  You 
know  that  Monsieur  Malorey  was  very  particular 
about  his  personal  appearance  and  that  he  was  al- 
ways very  dignified.  You  remember  also  that  he 
was  extremely  decorous.  He  had  an  old-fashioned 
way  of  speaking,  which  was  delightful.  One  day 
when  he  had  invited  our  parents  to  dinner  for  the 
second  time  he  himself  offered  a  dish  of  artichokes 
to  our  mother,  saying:  'Just  a  little  more  of  the 
underpart,  Madame.'  He  was  speaking  according 
to  the  best  traditions  of  politeness  and  of  language. 
For  our  ancestors  never  spoke  of  'the  bottom  of  an 
artichoke.'  But  the  term  was  antiquated  and  our 
mother  had  great  difficulty  to  keep  from  laughing. 
I  cannot  remember,  Zoe,  how  we  came  to  know  the 
artichoke  story." 

Zoe,  who  was  hemming  white  curtains,  replied: 
"We  heard  it  because  our  father  related  it  one  day 
without  noticing  that  we  were  present." 

"And  ever  afterwards,  Zoe,  you  could  never  see 
Monsieur  Malorey  without  wanting  to  laugh." 


THE  NECKTIE  99 

"You  laughed  also." 

"No,  Zoe,  I  did  not  laugh  at  that.  That  which 
amuses  other  men  does  not  make  me  laugh,  that 
which  amuses  me  does  not  make  other  men  laugh. 
I  have  often  noticed  it.  I  see  the  ludicrous  where 
no  one  else  perceives  it.  I  am  gay  and  I  am  sad  in 
the  wrong  places,  and  it  has  often  made  me  look  like 
a  fool." 

Monsieur  Bergeret  climbed  a  ladder  in  order  to 
hang  a  view  of  Mount  Vesuvius  by  night,  during  an 
eruption;  the  picture  was  a  water-colour  which  he 
had  inherited  from  a  paternal  ancestor. 

"But  I  have  not  told,  you  sister,  what  I  said  to 
Monsieur  Malorey." 

"Lucien,  while  you  are  on  the  ladder,  please  put 
up  the  curtain-rods,"  said  Zoe. 

"I  will,"  said  her  brother.  "We  were  then  liv- 
ing in  a  little  house  in  a  suburb  of  Saint-Omer." 

"The  curtain-rings  are  in  the  nail-box." 

"I  have  them.  ...  A  little  house  with  a  gar- 
den." 

"A  very  pretty  garden,"  said  Zoe.  "It  was  full 
of  lilac  bushes.  On  the  lawn  was  a  vase  in  terra 
cotta,  at  the  end  a  maze,  and  a  grotto  rockery, 
and  on  the  wall  two  large  blue  pots." 

"Yes,  Zoe,  two  large  blue  pots.  One  morning, 
one  summer  morning.  Monsieur  Malorey  came  to 


lOO  THE  NECKTIE 

our  house  to  consult  some  books  that  were  not  in 
his  own  library  and  which  he  could  not  have  found 
in  the  town  library,  because  it  had  been  destroyed 
in  a  fire.  My  father  had  placed  his  study  at  the 
Dean's  disposal  and  the  offer  had  been  accepted. 
It  was  arranged  that  when  he  had  collated  his  texts 
he  would  stay  and  lunch  with  us." 

"Just  see  if  the  curtains  are  too  long,  Lucien." 
"I  will.  .  .  . 

"That  morning  the  heat  was  stifling.  Among 
the  still  leaves  even  the  birds  were  silent.  Sitting 
under  a  tree  in  the  garden,  I  perceived  in  the  shaded 
study  the  back  of  Monsieur  Malorey  and  his  long 
hair  resting  on  the  collar  of  his  frock-coat.  Save 
that  his  hand  was  moving  over  a  sheet  of  paper, 
he  did  not  stir.  There  was  nothing  extraordinary 
in  that.  He  was  writing.  But  what  did  appear  to 
me  unusual  .  .  ." 

"Well,  are  they  long  enough?" 
"Not  by  four  inches,  my  good  Zoe." 
"What,  four  inches?     Show  me,  Lucien." 
"Look.  .  .  .  What  did   appear  to   me   unusual 
was  to  see  Monsieur  Malorey's  tie  on  the  window- 
sill.     Overcome  by  the  heat,  the  Dean  had  unwound 
the  black  cravat  that  three  times  encircled  his  neck. 
And  the  long  piece  of  black  silk  hung  from  side  to 
side  out  of  the  open  window.     I  was  seized  with  an 


THE  NECKTIE  loi 

uncontrollable  desire  to  take  it.  I  crept  softly  up 
to  the  wall  of  the  house,  I  stretched  my  arm  to- 
wards the  tie,  I  pulled  it;  nothing  stirred  in  the 
study;  I  pulled  it  again;  there  it  was  in  my  hand; 
I  went  and  hid  it  in  one  of  the  large  blue  pots  in 
the  garden." 

"It  was  not  a  very  brilliant  joke,  Lucien." 
"No.  ...  I  hid  it  in  one  of  the  large  blue  pots 
and  I  took  care  to  cover  it  with  leaves  and  moss. 
Monsieur  Malorey  continued  for  some  time  at  work 
in  the  study.  I  watched  his  motionless  back  and 
the  long  white  hair  flowing  over  the  collar  of  his 
frock-coat.  Then  the  servant  called  me  to  lunch. 
As  I  entered  the  dining-room  the  most  unexpected 
sight  met  my  gaze.  Between  our  father  and 
mother  I  saw  Monsieur  Malorey  grave,  calm,  but 
without  his  necktie.  He  had  all  his  usual  dignity. 
He  was  even  august.  But  he  was  not  wearing  his 
tie.  This  filled  me  with  surprise.  I  knew  he  could 
not  be  wearing  it  since  it  was  in  the  blue  pot.  And 
yet  I  was  prodigiously  astonished  to  see  him  with- 
out it.  'I  cannot  think,  Madame,'  he  said  softly 
to  our  mother.  .  .  .  She  interrupted  him:  *My 
husband  will  lend  you  one,  dear  sir.' 

"And  I  reflected:     'I  hid  it  in  jest,  he  failed  to 
find  it  in  earnest.'     But  I  was  astonished." 


THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES 


TO  OCTAVE  MIRBEAU 


THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES 


HE  engagement  had  begun;  every- 
thing was  going  well.  At  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning  General 
Decuir,  of  the  southern  army,  whose 
brigade  occupied  a  strong  position 
beneath  the  woods  of  Saint-Colomban,  effected  a 
brilliant  reconnaissance  which  demonstrated  the 
absence  of  the  enemy.  Then  the  soldiers  broke 
their  fast,  and  the  General,  leaving  his  escort  at 
Saint-Luchaire,  drove,  accompanied  by  Captain 
Varnot,  in  the  motor-car  which  had  come  to  fetch 
him,  to  the  Chateau  de  Montll,  where  the  Baronne 
de  Bonmont  had  invited  him  to  lunch.  The  vil- 
lage of  Montll  was  hung  with  flags.  At  the  en- 
trance to  the  park,  the  General  passed  beneath  a 
triumphal  arch  erected  in  his  honour  and  decorated 
with  flags,  trophies  and  branches  of  oak  interwoven 
with  boughs  of  laurel. 

On  the  steps  of  her  castle  the  Baronne  de  Bon- 
mont received  the  General  and  led  him  Into  a  vast 
hall  hung  with  weapons  and  glittering  with  steel. 
"Your   residence    is   superb,    Madame,    and   the 
country  is  beautiful,"  said  the  General.     "I  have 

105 


io6        THE  MONTIL  MANOEUVRES 

often  been  to  shoot  about  here,  chiefly  with  the 
Breces,  where  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your 
son,  if  I  am  not  mistaken." 

"No,  you  are  not  mistaken,"  said  Ernest  de  Bon- 
mont,  who  had  driven  the  General  from  Saint- 
Luchaire.  "And  to  say  one  is  bored  at  the  Breces 
is  to  put  it  mildly!" 

It  was  a  small  luncheon  party.  Besides  the  Gen- 
eral, the  Captain,  the  Baronne  and  her  son,  there 
were  only  Madame  Worms-Clavelin  and  Joseph 
Lacrisse. 

"You  must  take  things  as  you  find  them  I"  said 
Madame  de  Bonmont  placing  the  General  on  her 
right  at  a  table  decorated  with  flowers  over  which 
towered  an  equestrian  statue  of  Napoleon  in  Sevres 
porcelain. 

At  a  glance  the  General  took  in  the  long  gallery 
hung  with  the  finest  Van  Orley  tapestries. 

"You  have  plenty  of  room  here !" 

"The  General  might  have  brought  his  brigade," 
said  the  Captain. 

"I  should  have  been  delighted  to  receive  it,** 
replied  the  Baronne  smiling. 

The  talk  was  simple,  quiet  and  cordial.  Every 
one  had  the  good  taste  to  avoid  politics.  The  Gen- 
eral was  a  royalist.     He  did  not  say  so,  but  it  was 


THE  MONTIL  MANOEUVRES      107 

well  known.  His  manners  were  perfect.  His  two 
sons  had  been  arrested  for  crying:  "Panama!"  on 
the  boulevards  when  President  Loubet  came  into 
office.  The  General's  own  attitude  had  always 
been  discreet.  Horses  and  cannon  were  the  topics 
of  conversation. 

"The  new  75  is  a  gem,"  said  the  General. 

"One  cannot  too  highly  commend  the  ease  with 
which  the  firing  is  regulated.  It  is  really  wonder- 
ful," added  Captain  Varnot. 

"And  during  the  manoeuvres,"  said  Madame 
Worms-Clavelin,  "by  a  new  and  ingenious  arrange- 
ment the  covers  of  the  ammunition  wagons  serve 
as  a  shelter  for  the  gunners." 

Madame  la  Prefete  was  congratulated  on  her 
military  knowledge. 

Madame  Worms-Clavelin  appeared  to  equal  ad- 
vantage when  she  spoke  of  Notre-Dame  des  Belles- 
Feuilles. 

"You  know,  General,  that  In  this  department,  no 
further  away  than  Brece,  we  have  a  miraculous 
statue  of  the  Blessed  Virgin." 

"I  have  heard  of  it,"  replied  the  General. 

"Before  he  was  made  a  Bishop,"  continued 
Madame  Worms-Clavelin,  "the  Abbe  Guitrel  was 
greatly  interested  in  the  apparitions  of  Notre-Dame 


io8        THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES 

des  Belles-Feuilles.  He  even  wrote  a  little  book  to 
prove  that  Notre-Dame  des  Belles-Feuilles  is  the 
special  protectress  of  the  French  army." 

"Tell  me  where  I  can  procure  a  copy  and  I  will 
read  it,"  said  the  General. 

Madame  Worms-Clavelin  promised  to  send  him 
the  book. 

In  short  throughout  the  meal  not  a  word  was 
uttered  that  could  be  called  offensive  or  tending 
to  the  malicious.  After  lunch,  there  was  a  walk 
in  the  park.  Then  Captain  Varnot  took  his 
leave. 

"Let  my  escort  wait  for  me  at  Saint-Luchaire, 
Captain,"  said  the  General.  And  turning  to  La- 
crisse,  he  said: 

"Manoeuvres  are  a  picture  of  war,  but  they  are 
not  a  true  picture  because  everything  is  thought 
out  and  planned  whereas  in  war  it  is  the  unexpected 
that  happens.'^ 

"Will  you  come  and  see  the  pheasantry,  Gen- 
eral?" said  Madame  de  Bonmont. 

"With  pleasure,  Madame." 

She  turned  round. 

"Are  you  not  coming,  Ernest?" 

Ernest  had  been  stopped  on  his  way  by  the 
worthy  Raulin,  mayor  of  Montil. 

"Excuse  me,   Baron,"  he  was  saying.     "But  if 


THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES      109 

you  could  say  a  word  to  General  Decuir  for  me,  if 
only  the  artillery  would  pass  over  St.  John's  Hill, 
across  my  lucerne  field." 

"What!  Haven't  you  a  good  crop,  Raulin?  Is 
that  why  you  want  It  trampled  on?" 

"Not  at  all,  not  at  all.  The  crop  is  excellent, 
Baron ;  the  harvest  next  month  promises  to  be  good. 
But  compensation  is  good  also.  Last  time  it  was 
Houssiaux  who  had  it.  Isn't  it  my  turn  now?  I 
am  mayor,  I  bear  all  the  burdens  of  the  commune, 
is  it  not  fair  therefore  that  when  there  is  any  bonus 
to  be  given.  .  .  .    ?" 

The  General  was  taken  to  the  pheasantry. 

"It  is  time,"  he  said,  "that  I  rejoined  my  bri- 
gade." 

"Oh!  You  will  reach  it  in  no  time  with  my 
thirty  horse-power,"  said  the  young  baron. 

They  inspected  the  kennels,  the  stables  and  the 
gardens. 

"Your  roses  are  superb,"  said  the  General,  who 
was  fond  of  flowers.  Through  the  perfumed  air 
there  boomed  the  sound  of  cannon. 

"It  has  a  festal  sound  and  uplifts  the  heart," 
said  Lacrisse. 

"Like  the  sound  of  bells,"  said  Madame  Worms- 
Clavelin. 

"You  are  a  true  Frenchwoman,  Madame,"  said 


no        THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES 

the  General.  "Every  word  you  utter  breathes  the 
purest  patriotism." 

It  was  four  o'clotk.  The  General  could  not  stay 
a  minute  longer.  Fortunately  in  "the  thirty  horse- 
power"  he   would   reach  his  brigade   in   no   time. 

With  the  young  baron,  Lacrisse  and  the  chauf- 
feur he  entered  the  car,  and  once  again  passed  be- 
neath his  triumphal  arch. 

In  forty  minutes  he  was  at  Saint-Luchaire.  But 
his  escort  was  not  there.  In  vain  the  four  motor- 
ists looked  for  Captain  Varnot.  The  village  was 
deserted.  Not  a  soldier  to  be  found.  A  butcher 
was  passing  in  his  cart.  They  asked  him  where 
Decuir's  division  was:  he  replied: 

"Try  the  Cagny  road.  Just  now  I  heard  firing 
in  the  direction  of  Cagny,  and  it  was  loud  too,  I 
can  assure  you." 

"Cagny,  where  is  that?"  inquired  the  General. 

"Don't  you  trouble,  I  know,"  said  the  Baron. 
"I  will  drive  you  there." 

And,  as  the  drive  would  be  a  long  one,  he  gave 
the  General  a  dust-coat,  a  cap  and  goggles. 

They  started  on  the  departmental  road;  they 
passed  Saint-Andre,  Villeneuve,  Letaf,  Saint- 
Por9ain,  Trupheme,  Mirange,  and  they  saw  the 
Cagny  pond  shining  like  brass  in  the  light  of  the 


THE  MONTIL  MANOEUVRES      iii 

setting  sun.  On  the  high-road,  they  met  dragoons 
of  the  northern  army  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
whereabouts  of  the  Decuir  brigade,  but  they  main- 
tained that  the  southern  army  was  engaged  at  Saint- 
Paulain. 

Saint-Paulain  was  forty-five  kilometres  distant, 
in  the  direction  of  Montil. 

The  car  turned  round,  went  back  the  depart- 
mental road,  returned  through  Mirange,  Trupheme, 
Saint-Porgain,  Letaf,  Villeneuve  and  Saint-Andre. 
"Put  on  more  speed,"  ordered  the  Baron. 
And  the  car  passed  through  the  streets  of  Verry- 
les-Fougerais,  Suttieres  and  Rary-la-Vicomte,  rais- 
ing a  cloud  of  dust  golden  like  a  glory  and  crushing 
pigs  and  poultry.  Two  kilometres  from  Saint- 
Paulain,  they  came  on  the  outposts  of  the  southern 
army  holding  La  Saulaie,  Mesville  and  Le  Sourdais. 
There  they  learned  that  the  whole  of  the  northern 
army  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  Ilette. 

They  drove  towards  Torcy-la-Mirande  in  order 
to  strike  the  river  by  the  heights  of  Vieux-Bac. 

When  in  the  course  of  an  hour  they  began  to  per- 
ceive by  the  evening  light  a  sheet  of  white  mist 
hanging  over  the  low  lying  meadows : 

"Gad,"  said  the  young  Baron,  "we  can't  cross: 
the  Ilette  Bridge  is  destroyed." 


112        THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES 

"Whatl"  exclaimed  the  General,  "the  Ilette 
Bridge  destroyed?  What's  that  you  say?  The 
Bridge  destroyed  1" 

"Why,  General  I  yes.  In  the  plan  of  the  man- 
oeuvers  the  Bridge  is  destroyed  in  theory." 

The  General  did  not  appreciate  the  joke. 

**I  admire  your  wit  young  man,"  he  said  sharply. 

At  Vieux-Bac  they  thundered  across  the  iron 
bridge  and  followed  the  ancient  Roman  road,  which 
connects  Torcy-la-Mirande  with  the  chief  town  of 
the  department.  In  the  sky,  Venus  was  kindling 
her  silver  flame  close  by  the  crescent  moon.  They 
travelled  about  thirty  kilometres  without  meeting 
any  troops.  At  Saint-£variste  there  was  a  terrible 
hill  to  climb.  The  car  groaned  like  a  tired  beast, 
but  did  not  stop.  Coming  down  it  went  over  some 
stones  and  was  on  the  point  of  capsizing  in  a  ditch. 
Then  the  road  was  excellent  as  far  as  Mallemanche, 
where  they  arrived  at  night,  during  a  surprise. 

The  sky  was  glittering  with  stars.  Trumpets 
were  sounding.  Lanterns  were  casting  a  yellow 
gleam  on  the  blue  road.  Foot  soldiers  were  pillag- 
ing the  houses.  The  inhabitants  were  at  the  win- 
dows. 

"Although  merely  theoretical  it  is  all  extremely 
impressive,"  said  Lacrisse. 

The  General  was  told  that  his  brigade  was  in 


THE  MONTIL  MANOEUVRES      113 

possession  of  Villeneuve  on  the  left  wing  of  the  vic- 
torious army.     The  enemy  was  in  full  retreat. 

Villeneuve  is  at  the  junction  of  the  Ilette  and  the 
Claine,  twenty  kilometres  from  Mallemanche. 

"We  must  make  for  Villeneuve!"  said  the  Gen- 
eral. "At  last  we  know  what  we  have  to  do,  and 
a  good  thing  too." 

The  Villeneuve  road  was  so  encumbered  with  ar- 
tillery, ammunition  wagons  and  gunners  asleep  and 
wrapped  in  their  great  cloaks,  that  it  was  very  diffi- 
cult for  the  car  to  thread  its  way.  A  canten-woman 
sitting  in  a  cart  decorated  with  Chinese  lanterns 
hailed  the  motorists  and  offered  them  coffee  and 
liqueurs. 

"We  won't  say  no,"  replied  the  General. 
"We   have   swallowed   dust   enough   during  the 
manoeuvers." 

They  drank  a  liqueur  and  pressed  on  to  Ville- 
neuve, which  was  occupied  by  the  infantry. 

"But  where  is  my  brigade?"  cried  the  General, 
who  was  growing  anxious. 

They  questioned  eagerly  all  the  officers  they  met. 
But  no  one  could  give  them  news  of  the  Decuir  bri- 
gade. 

"What!  no  news?  Then  It  is  not  at  Villeneuve? 
Incredible !" 

"Gentlemen,"   they  heard  in   a  woman's   voice, 


114       THE  MONTIL  MANOEUVRES 

shrill  and  bell-like.  They  looked  up  and  beheld  a 
head  studded  with  curl-papers;  it  belonged  to  the 
postmistress. 

"Gentlemen,  there  are  two  Villeneuves.  This  is 
Villeneuve-sur-Claine.  Perhaps  it  is  Villcneuvc-la- 
Bataille  that  you  want." 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  Baron. 

"That  is  a  long  way  off,"  said  the  postmistress. 
"You  must  go  first  to  Montil.  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
Montil?" 

"Yes,"  replied  the  Baron,  "we  know  Montil." 

"Then  you  go  on  to  Saint-Michel-du-Mont ;  you 
take  the  main  road  and  .  .  ." 

From  the  window  of  a  neighbouring  house  with 
gilded  scutcheons  came  out  a  head  wrapped  in  a 
comforter: 

"Gentlemen  ..." 

And  the  notary  of  Villeneuve-sur-Claine  gave  his 
advice : 

"To  reach  Villeneuve-la-Bataille,  you  would  do 
better  to  cross  through  the  Forest  of  Tongues.  .  .  . 
You  go  to  La  Croix  du  Perron,  you  turn  to  the 
right  .  .  ." 

"That's  enough.  I  know  the  Forest  of 
Tongues,"  said  the  Baron,  "I  have  hunted  there 
with  the  Breces.  .  .  .  Thank  you,  sir.  .  .  . 
Thank  you,  Mademoiselle." 


THE  MONTIL  MANCEUVRES      115 

"Don't  mention  it,"  said  the  postmistress. 

"At  your  service,  gentlemen,"  said  the  notary. 

"What  if  we  went  to  the  inn  and  had  a  cocktail?" 
said  the  Baron. 

"I  should  like  something  to  eat,"  said  Lacrisse, 
"I  am  done  up." 

"Courage,  gentlemen,"  said  the  General.  "We 
will  make  up  for  it  at  Villeneuve-la-Bataille." 

And  they  started.  They  passed  through  Vely, 
La  Roche,  Les  Saules,  Meulette,  La  Taillerie  and 
entered  the  Forest  of  Tremble.  A  dazzling  light 
ran  before  them  into  the  shades  of  night  and  of  the 
forest.  They  reached  La  Croix-du-Perron,  then  the 
Roi-Henri  cross-roads.  They  fled  wildly  through 
the  silence  and  solitude.  They  saw  the  deer  glide 
by  and  the  lights  in  the  charcoal-burners'  huts. 
Suddenly  in  a  deep  cutting  the  ominous  noise  of  an 
explosion  made  them  shudder.  The  car  skidded  and 
knocked  up  against  a  tree. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  asked  the  General,  who 
had  been  thrown  head  over  heels. 

Lacrisse  groaned ;  he  was  lying  on  a  bed  of  fern. 

But  Ernest,  lantern  in  hand,  was  saying  dis- 
mally : 

"The  tyre  has  burst.  .  .  .  But  worse  than  that 
the  front  wheel  is  twisted." 


EMILE 


EMILE 

ADEMOISELLE  BERGERET  was 
silent.  She  smiled,  which  was  un- 
usual. 

"Why   are  you   laughing,   Zoe?" 
asked  Monsieur  Bergeret. 
"I  was  thinking  of  £mile  Vincent." 
"What  Zoe !     You  can  think  of  that  excellent 
man,  whom  we  have  just  lost,  whom  we  loved  and 
whom  we  mourn,  and  you  can  laugh !" 

"I  laugh  because  I  can  see  him  again  as  he  used 
to  be,  and  the  old  memories  are  the  strongest.  But 
you  should  know,  Lucien,  that  all  smiles  are  not 
joyful  any  more  than  all  tears  are  sorrowful.  It 
takes  an  old  maid  to  explain  that." 

"I  am  not  unaware,  Zoe,  that  laughter  is  the 
result  of  nervous  agitation.  Madame  de  Custine 
as  she  bade  adieu  in  the  prison  to  her  husband  con- 
demned to  death  by  the  Revolutionary  Tribunal, 
was  seized  with  a  fit  of  uncontrollable  laughter  at 
the  sight  of  a  prisoner  walking  past  her  in  dressing- 
gown  and  night-cap,  with  his  face  painted  and  a 
candle  in  his  hand." 

"That  is  not  the  same  thing,"  said  Zoe. 
iig 


I20  EMILE 

"No,"  replied  Monsieur  Bergeret.  "But  I  re- 
member what  happened  to  me  when  I  heard  of  the 
death  of  poor  Demay  who  used  to  sing  comic  songs 
al  the  cafes  concerts.  It  was  one  evening  during 
a  reception  at  the  Prefecture.  Worms-Clavelin 
said:     'Demay  is  dead.' 

"I  for  my  part  received  the  tidings  in  decorous 
sadness.  And,  reflecting  that  never  again  should 
I  hear  that  wondrous  woman  sing:  Je  cas*  des 
noisettes  en  m'asseyant  d'ssus*  I  tasted  to  the  dregs 
all  the  melancholy  the  thought  engendered.  I  let 
it  drip  into  my  soul  and  relapsed  into  silence.  The 
Chief  Secretary,  Monsieur  Lacarelle,  exclaimed  in 
his  deep  voice,  through  his  military  moustache:  'De- 
may  dead!  What  a  loss  to  the  gaiety  of  France!' 
'It  was  in  the  evening  paper,'  said  Judge  Pilloux. 
'True,'  added  General  Cartier  de  Chalmot  gently, 
'and  I  am  informed  that  she  died  consoled  by  the 
rites  of  the  Church.' 

"At  the  General's  simple  words  suddenly  a 
strange,  incongruous  vision  flashed  before  my  eyes. 
I  imagined  the  end  of  the  world  as  it  is  described 
in  the  'Dies  Irae,'  according  to  the  testimony  of 
David  and  the  Sibyl.  I  beheld  the  age  reduced  to 
ashes;  I  saw  the  dead  issuing  forth  from  their 
tombs,  and,  at  the  angel's  summons,  crowding  bc- 

*I  crack  nuts  by  sitting  on  them. 


EMILE  ,  121 

fore  the  Judgment  Seat,  and  the  massive  Demay 
mother-naked  at  the  Lord's  right  hand.  At  this 
conception  I  burst  out  laughing  in  the  presence  of 
the  astonished  officials  civil  and  military.  But 
worse  still,  the  vision  obsessed  me  and  I  added 
between  bursts  of  laughter:  'You  will  see  that  by 
her  very  presence,  she  will  upset  the  solemnity  of 
the  Last  Judgment.'  Never,  Zoe,  were  words  less 
comprehensible,  less  relevant." 

"You  are  absurd,  Lucien.  I  never  have  those 
curious  visions.  I  smiled  because  I  imagined  our 
poor  friend  Vincent  just  as  he  was  in  life.  That 
was  all.  It  was  quite  natural.  I  mourn  for  him 
with  all  my  heart.     We  never  had  a  better  friend." 

"I  too  was  very  fond  of  him,  Zoe,  and  I  too  when 
I  think  of  him  am  tempted  to  smile.  It  was  strange 
how  so  much  military  ardour  came  to  reside  in  so 
small  a  body  and  how  a  soul  so  heroic  could  dwell  in 
a  form  so  spruce  and  plump.  His  life  passed  quietly 
in  the  suburb  of  a  provincial  town.  He  was  a 
brushmaker  at  Les  Tintelleries.  But  there  was 
room  in  his  heart  for  something  besides  his  busi- 
ness." 

"He  was  even  smaller  than  Uncle  Jean,"  said 
Mademoiselle  Bergeret. 

"And  he  was  martial,  he  was  civic,  he  was  im- 
perial," said  Monsieur  Bergeret. 


122  EMILE 

**Hc  was  a  very  excellent  man,"  said  Mademoi- 
selle Bergeret. 

"He  was  in  the  war  of  1870,  Zoe.  In  that  year 
he  was  twenty.  I  was  only  twelve.  He  seemed  to 
me  old  and  full  of  years.  One  day  in  the  Terrible 
Year,  he  entered  our  peaceful  provincial  dwelling 
with  the  clashing  of  steel.  He  came  to  bid  us  fare- 
well. He  was  dressed  in  the  startling  uniform  of  a 
franc-tireur.  Protruding  from  his  scarlet  belt  were 
the  butts  of  two  horse-pistols.  And  because  a  smile 
must  enter  even  into  the  most  tragic  moments,  the 
unconscious  humour  of  some  unknown  armourer  had 
hitched  him  to  an  enormous  cavalry  sword.  Do  not 
blame  me  for  the  expression,  Zoe;  it  occurs  in  one 
of  Cicero's  letters.  'Whoever,'  says  the  orator, 
'hitched  my  son-in-law  to  that  sword?' 

"What  astonished  me  most  in  the  equipment  of 
our  friend  £mile  Vincent  was  this  huge  sword.  To 
my  childish  mind  it  seemed  to  augur  victory.  You, 
Zoe,  I  believed,  were  more  impressed  by  his  boots, 
for  you  looked  up  from  your  work  and  cried :  'Why 
it  is  Puss  in  Boots  I'  " 

"Did  I  say  'Puss  in  Boots'?     Poor  £mile." 

"You  said  'Puss  in  Boots';  and  you  need  not  re- 
gret it,  Zoe.  Madame  d'Abrantes  in  her  Memoirs 
relates  how  a  young  girl  seeing  Napoleon,  then 
young  and  slender,  ridiculously  accoutred  as  a  Gen- 


EMILE  123 

eral  of  the  Republic,  likewise  called  him  Tuss  in 
Boots.'  Bonaparte  never  forgave  her  for  it.  Our 
friend  was  very  magnanimous;  the  title  did  not  of- 
fend him.  fimile  Vincent  and  his  company  were 
placed  under  the  command  of  a  general  who  did  not 
like  francs-tireursy  and  who  thus  harangued  them: 
*It  is  not  everything  to  be  dressed  for  a  carnival. 
You  must  know  how  to  fight.' 

"The  caustic  speech  did  not  trouble  my  friend 
Vincent.  He  was  splendid  throughout  the  cam- 
paign. One  day  he  was  seen  to  approach  the  en- 
emy's outposts  with  all  the  calm  of  a  short-sighted 
man  and  a  hero.  He  could  not  see  three  steps 
before  him.  Nothing  could  make  him  retreat. 
For  the  remaining  thirty  years  of  his  life,  while 
he  was  making  carpet-brooms,  he  lived  on  the  mem- 
ory of  that  campaign.  He  read  military  news- 
papers, presided  over  meetings  of  his  former  com- 
panions in  arms,  was  present  at  the  unveiling  of 
monuments  raised  to  the  soldiers  of  1870.  When 
from  time  to  time  there  were  erected  on  French 
soil  monuments  to  Verclngetorix,  to  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
to  the  soldiers  of  the  Loire,  at  the  head  of  the 
workmen  in  his  factory,  fimlle  defiled  before  them. 
He  made  patriotic  speeches.  And,  here  Zoe,  we 
approach  a  scene  In  the  comedy  of  life,  the  melan- 
choly humour   of  which   may  one   day  be   appre- 


124  EMILE 

dated.  During  the  Dreyfus  Affair  it  occurred  to 
£mile  Vincent  to  say  that  Esterhazy  was  a  fraud 
and  a  traitor.  He  said  it  because  he  knew  it  was 
so  and  because  he  was  far  too  candid  ever  to  con- 
ceal the  truth.  From  that  day  he  was  regarded 
as  the  enemy  of  his  country  and  of  the  army.  He 
was  treated  as  a  traitor  and  an  alien.  He  suffered 
from  heart  disease,  and  his  grief  at  this  treatment 
aggravated  the  malady.  He  died  of  sorrow  and 
of  shock.  The  last  time  I  saw  him  he  was  talking 
of  military  tactics  and  strategy.  They  were  his 
favourite  topic  of  conversation.  Although  the 
campaign  of  '70,  in  which  he  had  served,  was  con- 
ducted with  the  greatest  disorder  and  confusion, 
he  was  persuaded  that  the  art  of  war  is  the  finest 
of  all  arts.  And  I  fear  that  I  must  have  vexed  him 
by  saying  that  properly  speaking  there  is  no  art 
of  war,  for  the  arts  that  are  really  employed  in 
campaigns  are  those  of  peace;  baking,  farriery,  the 
maintenance  of  order,  chemistry,  etc." 

"Why  did  you  say  such  things,  Lucien?"  asked 
Mademoiselle  Bergeret. 

"Because  I  was  convinced  of  their  truth,"  replied 
her  brother.  "What  is  called  strategy  is  really  the 
art  practised  by  Cook's  agency.  It  consists  in 
crossing  rivers  by  way  of  bridges  and  getting  the 


EMILE  125 

other  side  of  mountains  through  passes.  As  for 
military  tactics,  the  rules  are  childish.  Great  Cap- 
tains pay  no  attention  to  them.  Although  they 
would  never  admit  it,  they  leave  much  to  chance. 
Their  art  is  to  create  prejudices  In  their  favour. 
Conquest  becomes  easy  to  them  when  they  are  be- 
lieved to  be  unconquerable.  It  Is  only  on  a  plan 
that  a  battle  assumes  that  aspect  of  order  and  regu- 
larity which  reveals  a  dominant  will." 

"Poor  fimlle  Vincent!"  sighed  Mademoiselle 
Bergeret.  "He  was  indeed  passionately  fond  of 
the  army.  And  I  agree  with  you  that  he  must  have 
suffered  cruelly  when  he  found  military  society 
treating  him  as  an  enemy.  General  Cartier  de 
Chalmot's  wife  was  very  hard  on  him.  She  knew 
better  than  anyone  that  he  subscribed  largely  to 
military  charities.  And  yet  she  would  have  nothing 
to  do  with  him  when  she  heard  that  he  had  called 
Esterhazy  a  fraud  and  a  traitor.  She  broke  with 
him  In  the  most  undisguised  fashion.  One  day 
when  he  came  to  her  house,  she  went  close  up  to 
the  hall  where  he  was  waiting  and  exclaimed  so 
that  he  might  hear  her:  'Tell  him  that  I  am  not 
at  home.'  Nevertheless  she  Is  not  a  malicious 
woman." 

"No     certainly,"     replied     Monsieur     Bergeret. 


126  EMILE 

"She  acted  according  to  that  holy  simplicity  of 
which  still  better  examples  may  be  found  in  earlier 
times.  Only  commonplace  virtues  are  left  to  us 
nowadays.  And  poor  £milc  died  of  nothing  but 
grief." 


ADRIENNE   BUQUET 


TO  DR.  GEORGES  DUMAS 


ADRIENNE  BUQUET 

E  were  finishing  our  dinner  at  the 
tavern  when  Laboullee  said  to  me: 
*'I  admit  that  second-sight,  hyp- 
notic suggestion  from  a  distance, 
presentiments  subsequently  fulfilled, 
all  those  phenomena  dependent  on  a  condition  of 
the  organism  at  present  ill-defined,  are  not  for  the 
most  part  proved  in  such  a  manner  as  to  satisfy  the 
demands  of  scientific  criticism.  They  nearly  all 
rest  on  evidence  which,  though  genuine,  permits  of 
some  uncertainty  as  to  the  nature  of  the  phenom- 
ena. That  the  facts  about  them  are  vague,  I 
admit.  But  that  they  are  possible  I  cannot  doubt 
since  I  myself  have  witnessed  one.  By  a  happy 
chance  I  was  myself  enabled  to  make  the  minutest 
scrutiny.  You  may  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  proceeed  methodically  and  that  I  was  careful 
to  eliminate  every  possibility  of  error." 

As  he  uttered  this  sentence,  the  young  doctor 
with  both  hands  smote  his  hollow  chest  padded  with 
pamphlets  and  inclined  towards  me  across  the  table 
his  bald  head  with  its  projecting  forehead. 

"Yes,  my  good  fellow,"  he  added,  "by  a  wonder- 

139 


I30  ADRIENNE  BUQUET 

ful  stroke  of  luck  one  of  those  phenomena  described 
by  Myers  and  Podmore  as  'phantoms  of  the  living' 
took  place  in  all  its  phases  before  the  very  eyes  of  a 
man  of  science.  I  observed  everything  and  noted 
everything  down." 

"I  am  listening." 

"The  time  of  the  occurrence,"  resumed  Laboul- 
lec,  "was  the  summer  of  '91.  My  friend,  Paul 
Buquet,  of  whom  I  have  often  spoken  to  you,  was 
then  living  with  his  wife  in  a  little  flat  in  the  Rue 
de  Crenelle,  opposite  the  fountain.  You  did  not 
know  Buquet?" 

"I  have  seen  him  two  or  three  times.  A  big 
fellow,  bearded  up  to  the  eyes.  His  wife  was  dark, 
pale,  large  features  with  long  grey  eyes." 

"Exactly:  a  bilious  temperament,  nervous  but 
fairly  well  balanced.  However,  when  a  woman 
lives  in  Paris  her  nerves  get  the  upper  hand  and 
— then  the  deuce  is  in  it.  Did  you  ever  see 
Adrienne?" 

"I  met  her  one  evening  in  the  Rue  de  la  Paix, 
standing  with  her  husband  in  front  of  a  jeweller's 
window,  her  eyes  fixed  on  some  sapphires.  A 
good-looking  woman  and  deucedly  well  dressed  for 
the  wife  of  a  poor  wretch  buried  in  the  cellars  of  a 
manufacturing  chemist.  Buquet  was  never  success- 
ful, was  he?" 


ADRIENNE  BUQUET  131 

"For  five  years  Buquet  had  been  working  for  the 
firm  of  Jacob,  manufacturers  of  photographic  mate- 
rials and  apparatus  in  the  Boulevard  Magenta. 
From  day  to  day  he  expected  to  be  made  a  partner. 
Although  he  did  not  earn  his  thousands,  he  had  a 
fairly  good  position.  His  prospects  were  not  bad. 
He  was  a  patient,  simple  fellow  and  hard  working. 
He  was  the  kind  to  succeed  in  the  long  run. 
Meanwhile  his  wife  cost  him  little.  Like  a  true 
Parisian,  she  was  an  excellent  manager,  for  ever 
making  wonderful  bargains  in  linen,  frocks,  laces 
and  jewels.  She  astonished  her  husband  by  her 
cleverness  in  dressing  extremely  well  on  nothing  at 
all  and  Paul  was  gratified  to  see  her  always  look- 
ing so  nice  and  wearing  such  elegant  under- 
linen.  But  these  details  cannot  interest  you." 
"My  dear  Laboullee,  I  am  very  interested." 
"At  any  rate  all  this  chatter  is  beside  the  point. 
As  you  know  I  was  Paul  Buquet's  schoolfellow. 
We  knew  each  other  in  the  second  class  at  Louis-le- 
Grand;  and  we  had  not  lost  sight  of  one  another 
when,  at  the  age  of  twenty-six,  before  he  had  made 
his  position,  he  married  Adrienne  for  love,  and 
with  nothing  but  what  she  stood  up  in,  as  we  say. 
Our  friendship  did  not  cease  with  his  marriage. 
Rather,  Adrienne  was  kind  to  me,  and  I  used  often 
to  dine  with  the  young  couple.     As  you  know,  I 


132  ADRIENNE  BUQUET 

am  doctor  to  the  actor  Laroche;  I  mix  with  theatri- 
cal folk,  who  from  time  to  time  give  me  tickets. 
Adrienne  and  her  husband  were  very  fond  of  the 
theatre.  When  I  had  a  box  for  the  evening  I  used 
to  go  and  dine  with  them  and  take  them  afterwards 
to  the  Comedie-Franqaise.  At  dinner  time  I  was 
always  sure  to  find  Buquet,  who  came  home  from 
his  factory  regularly  at  half-past  six,  his  wife  and 
their  friend  Geraud." 

"Geraud,"  I  inquired,  "Marcel  Geraud  who  was 
in  a  bank  and  who  used  to  wear  such  beautiful 
tics?" 

"The  very  same.  He  was  a  constant  visitor  at 
the  house.  Being  a  confirmed  bachelor  and  so- 
ciable, he  dined  there  every  day.  He  used  to  bring 
lobsters,  pdtes  and  all  kinds  of  dainties.  He  was 
pleasant,  amiable  and  taciturn.  Buquet  could  not 
get  along  without  him,  and  we  used  to  take  him 
to  the  theatre." 

"How  old  was  he?" 

"Geraud?  I  don't  know.  Between  thirty  and 
forty.  .  .  .  One  day  when  Laroche  had  given  me  a 
box,  I  went  as  usual  to  the  Rue  de  Grenelle,  to  my 
friends,  the  Buquets.  I  was  rather  late,  and  when 
I  arrived  dinner  was  ready.  Paul  was  complain- 
ing of  being  hungry;  but  Adrienne  could  not  make 
up  her  mind  to  sit  down  to  table  in  Geraud's  ab- 


ADRIENNE  BUQUET  133 

sence.  'My  children,'  I  cried,  *I  have  a  box  in  the 
second  row  for  the  Frangais!  They  are  playing 
"Denise" !'  'Come,'  said  Buquet,  'let  us  have  din- 
ner quickly  and  try  not  to  miss  the  first  act.'  The 
servant  put  dinner  on  the  table.  Adrienne  seemed 
anxious,  and  it  was  evident  that  she  turned  against 
every  mouthful.  Buquet  was  noisily  swallowing 
vermicelli,  catching  the  threads  hanging  from  his 
moustache  with  his  tongue.  'Women  are  extraor- 
dinary,' he  exclaimed.  'Just  fancy,  Laboullee, 
Adrienne  is  anxious  because  Geraud  has  not  come 
to  dinner  this  evening.  She  imagines  all  manner 
of  things.  Tell  her  how  absurd  she  is.  Geraud 
may  have  been  detained.  He  has  his  business. 
He  is  a  bachelor;  no  one  has  a  right  to  ask  him 
how  he  spends  his  time.  What  surprises  me  is  that 
he  should  devote  nearly  all  his  evenings  to  us.  It  Is 
very  good  of  him.  The  least  we  can  do  is  to  leave 
him  some  liberty.  My  principle  is  never  to  worry 
about  what  my  friends  are  doing.  But  women  are 
different.'  Madame  Buquet  in  a  trembling  voice 
rejoined:  'I  am  anxious.  I  fear  something  may 
have  happened  to  Monsieur  Geraud.'  Meanwhile 
Buquet  was  hurrying  on  the  meal.  'Sophie !'  he 
called  to  the  servant,  'bring  in  the  beef,  the  salad! 
Sophie !  the  cheese !  the  coffee.'  I  observed  that 
Madame  Buquet  had  eaten  nothing.     'Come,'  said 


134  ADRIENNE  BUQUET 

her  husband,  *go  and  dress;  and  don't  make  us  lose 
the  first  act.  A  play  by  Dumas  is  very  different 
from  an  operetta  of  which  all  you  want  is  to  catch 
an  air  or  two.  Every  play  of  Dumas'  is  a  series 
of  logical  deductions,  not  one  of  which  must  be 
lost.  Go,  my  love;  as  for  me  I  have  only  to  put 
on  my  frock-coat.'  She  rose,  and  slowly,  as  if  al- 
most against  her  will,  passed  into  her  room. 

"We  drank  our  coffee,  her  husband  and  I,  smok- 
ing our  cigarettes.  'That  good  Geraud,'  said  Paul, 
*I  am  vexed  all  the  same  that  he  isn't  here  this 
evening.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  see  *'Den- 
ise."  But  can  you  understand  Adrienne's  worry- 
ing over  his  absence?  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  make 
her  understand  that  the  good  fellow  may  have 
business  which  he  does  not  confide  to  us.  Who 
can  tell?  Why  it  may  be  a  love  affair!  She  won't 
understand.  Give  me  a  cigarette.'  Just  as  I  was 
handing  him  my  case,  we  heard  proceeding  from  the 
next  room  a  long  cry  of  terror  followed  by  a  dull 
bumpish  thud,  the  sound  of  something  falling. 
'Adrlenne!'  cried  Buquet.  And  he  rushed  into  the 
bedroom.  I  followed.  We  found  Adrlenne  lying 
full  length  on  the  floor,  motionless,  her  face  white 
and  her  eyes  turned  up.  There  was  no  epileptic  or 
kindred  symptom,  no  foam  on  the  lips.  The  limbs 
were  extended  but  not  rigid.     The  pulse  was  rapid 


ADRIENNE  BUQUET  135 

and  unequal.  I  helped  her  husband  to  put  her 
into  an  arm-chair.  Almost  immediately  her  circu- 
lation was  restored;  the  blood  rushed  to  her  face, 
which  was  generally  of  a  dull  white.  'There,'  she 
said,  pointing  to  her  wardrobe  mirror,  'there  I  I 
saw  him  there.  As  I  was  fastening  my  bodice,  1 
saw  him  in  the  glass.  I  turned  round,  thinking  he 
was  behind  me.  But  seeing  no  one  I  understood 
and  fell' 

"Meanwhile  I  was  trying  to  ascertain  whether  she 
had  sustained  any  injury  from  her  fall  and  I  found 
none.  Buquet  was  giving  her  sugared  eau  des 
carmes.  'Come,  my  love,'  he  was  saying,  'gather 
yourself  together!  Who  was  it  you  saw?  What 
do  you  say?'  She  turned  white  again.  'Oh!  I 
saw  him,  him.  Marcel.'  'She  saw  Geraud!  that  is 
odd,'  cried  Buquet.  'Yes,  I  saw  him,'  she  resumed 
gravely:  'he  looked  at  me  without  speaking,  like 
that'  And  she  assumed  a  haggard  look.  Buquet 
turned  towards  me  wonderingly.  'Don't  be  anx- 
ious,' I  replied,  'such  illusions  are  not  serious,  they 
may  proceed  from  indigestion.  We  will  consider 
the  matter  at  leisure.  For  the  moment  we  may 
put  it  on  one  side.  At  La  Charite  I  know  a  patient 
suffering  from  gastric  disease  who  used  to  see  cats 
under  all  the  furniture.' 

"In  a  few  minutes  Madame  Buquet  having  com- 


136  ADRIENNE  BUQUET 

pletely  recovered,  her  husband  took  out  his  watch 
and  said:  'If  you  think  that  the  theatre  will  not 
do  her  any  harm,  Laboullee,  it  is  time  we  started. 
I  will  tell  Sophie  to  go  for  a  cab.'  Adriennc 
quickly  put  on  her  hat.  'Paul  I  Paul  I  Doctor! 
do  listen:  let  us  go  to  Monsieur  Geraud's  first.  I 
am  anxious,  more  anxious  than  I  can  tell  you.' 

*'  'You  are  mad !'  cried  Buquet.  'Whatever  do 
you  imagine  is  wrong  with  Geraud?  We  saw  him 
yesterday  in  perfect  health.' 

"She  gave  me  a  look  so  imploring  that  the  burn- 
ing intensity  of  it  went  straight  to  my  heart. 
'Laboullee,  my  friend  let  us  go  at  once  to  Mon- 
sieur Geraud's.' 

"I  could  not  refuse  her,  she  asked  so  entreatingly. 
Paul  was  grumbling:  he  wanted  to  see  the  first  act. 
I  said  to  him:  'We  had  better  go  to  Geraud's,  it 
will  not  take  us  far  out  of  our  way.'  The  cab  was 
waiting  for  us.  I  called  to  the  driver:  '5  Rue  du 
Louvre.     And  as  quick  as  you  can.' 

"Geraud  lived  at  number  5  Rue  du  Louvre,  not 
far  from  his  bank,  in  a  little  three-roomed  flat  filled 
with  neckties.  They  were  the  good  fellow's  weak- 
ness. Barely  had  we  stopped  at  the  door  when 
Buquet  leaped  from  the  cab  and  looking  in  at  the 
porter's  lodge,  asked:  'How  is  Monsieur  Geraud?' 
The    concierge    replied:     'Monsieur    Geraud    re- 


ADRIENNE  BUQUET  137 

turned  at  five  o'clock  and  took  his  letters.  He  has 
not  gone  out  since.  If  you  want  to  see  him,  it  is 
the  back  staircase,  on  tihe  fourth  floor,  to  the  right.' 
But  Buquet  was  already  at  the  cab  door,  crying: 
'Geraud  is  at  home.  You  see,  my  love,  how  ab- 
surd you  were.  To  the  Comedie-Francais,  driver.' 
Then  Adrienne  almost  threw  herself  out  of  the  gab. 
*Paul,  I  implore  you,  go  up  to  Geraud's.  See  him. 
See  him,  you  must.' 

"  *Go  up  four  flights!'  he  said,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  'Adrienne  you  will  make  us  miss  the 
play.  Really,  when  a  woman  once  gets  an  idea  into 
her  head.  .  .  .' 

"I  remained  alone  in  the  cab  with  Madame 
Buquet,  and  I  saw  her  eyes  turned  towards  the  house 
door  and  gleaming  in  the  darkness.  At  length  Paul 
returned:  'Well,'  he  said,  'I  rang  three  times  and 
without  an  answer.  After  all,  my  love,  he  must 
have  had  his  reasons  for  not  wishing  to  be  dis- 
turbed. He  may  be  with  a  woman.  There  would 
be  nothing  astonishing  in.  that.'  Adrienne's  look 
became  so  tragic,  that  I  myself  felt  anxious.  When 
I  came  to  think  of  it,  it  was  unnatural  for  Geraud, 
who  never  dined  at  home,  to  remain  up  there  from 
five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  until  half-past  seven. 
'Wait  here  for  me,'  I  said  to  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Buquet,  'I  will  go  and  speak  to  the  con- 


138  ADRIENNE  BUQUET 

cierge*  The  woman  also  thought  it  strange  that 
Geraud  should  not  have  gone  out  to  dinner  as  usual. 
It  was  she  who  waited  on  the  fourth-floor  tenant, 
so  she  had  the  key  of  the  flat.  She  took  it  down 
from  the  rack  and  offered  to  go  up  with  me.  When 
we  had  reached  the  landing,  she  opened  the  door, 
and  from  the  vestibule  called  three  or  four  times: 
'Monsieur  Geraud !'  Receiving  no  reply,  she  ven- 
tured to  enter  the  first  room  which  was  the  bed- 
room. Again  she  called:  'Monsieur  Geraud! 
Monsieur  Geraud  I'  No  reply.  It  was  quite  dark. 
We  had  no  matches,  'There  must  be  a  box  of 
Swedish  matches  on  the  table  de  nitit*  the  woman 
said,  beginning  to  tremble  and  afraid  to  move.  I 
began  to  feel  on  the  table  and  my  fingers  came  in 
contact  with  a  sticky  substance.  'There  is  no  mis- 
take about  that,'  I  thought.     'It  is  blood.' 

"When  at  length  we  had  lit  a  candle,  we  saw 
Geraud  stretched  on  his  bed,  with  a  wound  in  his 
head.  His  arm  was  hanging  down  on  to  the  carpet 
where  his  revolver  had  fallen.  A  letter  stained 
with  blood  was  open  on  the  table.  It  was  in  his 
handwriting  and  addressed  to  Monsieur  and 
Madame  Buquet.  It  began  thus:  'My  dear 
friends,  you  have  been  the  charm  and  joy  of  my 
life.'  It  went  on  to  tell  them  of  his  resolve  to  die 
without  clearly  explaining  for  what  reason,  but  he 


ADRIENNE  BUQUET  139 

hinted  that  financial  embarrassment  was  the  cause 
of  his  suicide.  I  perceived  that  death  had  taken 
place  about  an  hour  ago.  So  that  he  had  killed 
himself  at  the  very  moment  when  Madame  Buquet 
had  seen  him  in  the  glass. 

"Now  is  not  this  just  what  I  was  telling  you,  a 
perfectly  authentic  case  of  second  sight,  or  to  use 
a  more  exact  term,  an  instance  of  that  curious 
psychical  synchronism  which  science  is  studying  to- 
day with  a  zeal  which  far  surpasses  its  success." 

"It  may  be  something  quite  different,"  I  replied. 
"Are  you  quite  sure  that  there  was  nothing  between 
Marcel  Geraud  and  Madame  Buquet?" 

"Why?  ...  I  never  noticed  anything.  And 
after  all,  what  would  that  prove?  .  .  ." 


THE  INTAGLIO 


THE    INTAGLIO 

HAD  come  to  him  at  noon  by  invita- 
tion. We  lunched  in  the  dining- 
room  long  as  a  church  nave,  a  veri- 
table treasure-house  filled  with  the 
ancient  gold  and  silver  work  he  has 
collected.  I  found  him  not  exactly  sad  but  medita- 
tive. His  conversation  now  and  again  suggested 
the  light  and  graceful  turn  of  his  wit.  An  occa- 
sional word  revealed  the  rare  delicacy  of  his  artistic 
tastes  and  his  passion  for  sport,  by  no  means  al- 
layed by  a  terrible  fall  from  his  horse  which  had 
split  his  head  open.  But  constantly  the  flow  of  his 
ideas  was  checked  as  if  they  had  been  barred  by 
some  obstacle. 

From  this  conversation,  which  was  somewhat 
fatiguing  to  follow,  all  I  retain  is  that  he  had  just 
sent  a  couple  of  white  peacocks  to  his  chateau  of 
Raray  and  that  without  any  special  reason  he  had 
for  three  weeks  been  neglecting  his  friends,  forsak- 
ing even  the  most  intimate.  Monsieur  and  Madame 
N. 

It  was  plain  enough  to  me  that  he  had  not  asked 
me  to  come  and  listen  to  confidences  such  as  those. 

143 


144  THE  INTAGLIO 

While  we  were  taking  our  coffee,  I  asked  him  what 
it  was  he  had  to  tell  me.  He  looked  at  me  rather 
surprised: 

"Had  I  anything  to  tell  you?" 

"Dame!  You  wrote:  'Come  and  lunch  to- 
morrow.    I  want  to  talk  to  you.'  " 

As  he  was  silent  I  took  the  letter  from  my  pocket 
and  showed  it  to  him.  The  address  was  in  his 
attractive  running  hand,  somewhat  irregular.  On 
the  envelope  there  was  a  seal  in  violet  wax. 

He  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead. 

"I  remember.  Be  so  kind  as  to  go  to  Feral's, 
he  will  show  you  a  study  by  Romney;  a  young 
woman;  golden  hair  the  reflection  of  which  gilds 
her  cheeks  and  forehead.  .  .  .  Pupils  dark  blue, 
giving  a  bluish  tinge  to  the  whole  eye.  .  .  .  The 
warm  freshness  of  her  complexion.  ...  It  is  de- 
licious. And  an  arm  like  a  gold-beater's  skin. 
However,  look  at  it  and  see  if  .  .  ." 

He  paused.  And  with  his  hand  on  the  door 
handle: 

**Wait  for  me.  I  will  put  on  my  coat  and  we 
will  go  out  together." 

Left  alone  in  the  dining-room,  I  went  to  the 
window,  and,  more  attentively  than  before,  ex- 
amined the  seal  of  violet  wax.     It  bore  the  imprint 


THE  INTAGLIO  145 

of  an  antique  intaglio,  representing  a  satyr  raising 
the  veil  of  a  nymph  who  was  asleep  at  the  foot  of 
a  pillar,  under  a  laurel-tree.  During  the  best 
Roman  peroid  the  subject  was  a  favourite  one  with 
painters  and  with  engravers  of  precious  stones. 
This  representation  appeared  to  me  excellent.  The 
purity  of  the  style,  the  perfect  feeling  for  form, 
the  harmonious  grouping,  converted  this  scene  no 
longer  than  one's  finger-nail,  into  a  composition  vast 
and  imposing. 

I  was  under  the  spell  when  my  friend  appeared 
through  the  half-open  door. 

"Come,  let's  be  off,"  he  said. 

He  had  his  hat  on  and  seemed  to  be  in  a  hurry 
to  go  out. 

I  congratulated  him  on  his  seal. 

"I  was  not  aware  that  you  possessed  this  beau- 
tiful gem." 

He  replied  that  he  had  not  had  it  long,  only 
about  six  weeks.  It  was  a  find.  He  took  it  from 
the  finger  on  which  he  wore  it  set  in  a  ring,  and 
put  it  in  my  hand. 

It  is  well  known  that  stones  engraved  in  this  fine 
classic  style  are  generally  cornelians.  I  was  some- 
what surprised  therefore  to  see  a  dull  gem,  of  a 
dark  violet. 


146  THE  INTAGLIO 

"What  I"  I  cried,  "an  amethyst." 

"Yes,  a  melancholy  stone  and  unlucky.  Do  you 
think  it  is  a  genuine  antique?" 

He  called  for  a  magnifying  glass.  And  now  I 
was  better  able  to  admire  the  carving  of  the  in- 
taglio. It  was  obviously  a  masterpiece  of  Greek 
glyptography  dating  from  the  early  Empire. 
Among  all  the  precious  stones  in  the  Museum  at 
Naples  I  had  never  seen  anything  more  beautiful. 
With  the  glass  it  was  possible  to  distinguish  on  the 
pillar  an  emblem  often  found  on  monuments  dedi- 
cated to  some  subject  of  the  Bacchic  cycle.  I 
pointed  it  out  to  him. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  smiled.  The  gem 
was  in  an  open  setting.  It  occurred  to  me  to  ex- 
amine the  reverse;  and  I  was  very  surprised  to  find 
thereon  an  inscription  of  a  clumsy  crudity  dating 
evidently  from  a  period  much  less  remote  than  that 
of  the  intaglio.  In  a  measure  these  signs  resembled 
the  engraving  on  those  Abraxas  stones  *  so  familiar 
to  antiquaries.  In  spite  of  my  inexperience  I  be- 
lieved them  to  be  magic  signs.  That  was  also  my 
friend's  opinion. 

"It  is  thought,"  he  said,  "to  be  a  cabalistic  for- 
mula, imprecations  taken  from  a  Greek  poet  .  .  ." 

*  Stones  so  called  because  they  bore  the  mystic  words  Abraxas, 
Abrasax,  known  also  as  Basilidian  stones  because  they  were  the 
symbol  of  the  Basilidians,  a  gnostic  sect. 


THE  INTAGLIO  147 

"Which  poet?" 

"I  am  not  very  well  up  In  them." 
"Theocritus." 
"Theocritus  perhaps." 

Through  the  glass  I  could  make  out  distinctly  a 
group  of  four  letters : 

KHPH 

"That  doesn't  spell  a  name,"  said  my  friend. 
I   pointed   out   to  him   that   in   Greek  it  is   the 
equivalent  of: 

KERE 

And  I  gave  him  back  the  stone.  He  looked  at 
it  long  in  a  dazed  manner  and  then  put  it  on  to 
his  finger. 

"Come,"  he  said  briskly.     "Come." 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Towards  the  Madeleine.     And  you?" 

"I?  Where  am  I  going?  Parbleu!  I  am  go- 
ing to  Gaulot's  to  see  a  horse  which  he  refuses  to 
buy  until  I  have  looked  at  it.  For,  as  you  know, 
I  am  an  authority  on  horses  and  something  of  a 
veterinary  surgeon  to  boot.  I  may  describe  myself 
also  as  a  furniture  broker,  an  upholsterer,  an  archi- 
tect, a  gardener,  and  If  need  be  a  stock-jobber. 
Ah!  my  friend  If  only  I  had  the  energy  I  would 
cut  out  all  the  Jews." 


148  THE  INTAGLIO 

Wc  went  out  into  the  faubourg;  and,  as  we 
walked  my  friend  assumed  a  gait  very  different 
from  his  habitual  nonchalance.  His  pace  soon  be- 
came so  rapid  that  I  had  difficulty  in  keeping  up 
with  him.  In  front  of  us  was  a  woman  rather  well 
dressed.     He  called  my  attention  to  her. 

"Her  back  is  round,  and  she  is  heavy  of  figure. 
But  look  at  her  ankle.  I  am  sure  the  leg  is  charm- 
ing. Have  you  not  noticed  that  the  build  of  horses, 
of  women,  and  of  all  fine  animals  is  very  much  the 
same?  Coarse  and  large  in  the  fleshy  parts,  their 
limbs  become  thin  towards  the  joints,  where  they 
display  the  fineness  of  the  bones.  Look  at  that 
woman;  above  her  waist  she  is  not  worth  a  glance. 
But  her  limbs!  How  free,  how  powerful!  How 
well  balanced  the  movement  of  her  walk!  And 
how  fine  the  leg  just  above  the  ankle!  And  the 
thigh  I  am  sure  is  nervously  supple  and  really  beau- 
tiful." 

Then  he  added  with  that  acquired  wisdom  which 
he  was  ever  ready  to  communicate: 

"You  must  not  ask  everything  from  one  woman; 
you  must  take  beauty  where  you  find  it.  It  is 
deucedly  rare,  is  beauty!" 

Whereupon,  through  a  mysterious  association  of 
ideas,  he  raised  his  left  hand  and  looked  at  his 
intaglio.     I  said  to  him: 


THE  INTAGLIO  149 

"Then  have  you  abandoned  your  little  armorial 
tree  and  taken  as  your  crest  that  marvellous  Bac- 
chante ?" 

"Ah!  Yes,  the  beech,  the  fau  of  Du  Fau.  In 
Poitou,  under  Louis  XVI,  my  great  grandfather 
was  what  was  then  called  a  nobleman,  that  is  he  was 
an  ennobled  commoner.  Later  he  joined  a  revolu- 
tionary club  at  Poitiers  and  acquired  national  prop- 
erty, which  procures  for  me  to-day,  in  a  society 
of  Jews  and  Americans,  the  friendship  of  princes 
and  the  rank  of  an  aristocrat.  Why  did  I  forsake 
the  fau  of  the  Du  Fau?  Why?  It  was  worth 
almost  as  much  as  the  chene  *  of  Duchesne  de  la 
Sicotiere.  And  I  have  exchanged  it  for  a  bac- 
chante, a  barren  laurel  and  an  emblematical  stone." 

Just  as  with  ironical  emphasis  he  was  uttering 
these  words,  we  reached  the  house  of  his  friend 
Gaulot;  but  Du  Fau  passed  the  two  copper  knockers 
representing  Neptune,  gleaming  on  the  door  like 
bath  taps. 

"I  thought  you  were  so  eager  to  go  and  see 
Gaulot?" 

He  appeared  not  to  hear  me  and  quickened  his 
step.  He  continued  breathlessly  as  far  as  the  Rue 
Matlgnon,  down  which  he  turned.  Then  suddenly 
he   stopped   In   front   of   a   tall,   melancholy,    five- 

•Oak. 


I50  THE  INTAGLIO 

storied  house.  In  silence  he  looked  anxiously  at 
the  flat  stucco  faqade  with  its  numerous  windows. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  there  long?"  I  asked  him. 
"Do  you  know  that  Madame  Cere  lives  in  this 
house?" 

I  knew  that  name  would  annoy  him.  Madame 
Cere  was  a  woman  whose  artificial  beauty,  well- 
known  venality  and  obvious  stupidity  he  had  always 
detested.  Old  and  of  neglected  appearance  she 
was  suspected  of  being  a  shop-lifter  and  appropriat- 
ing lace.  But  in  a  weak  almost  plaintive  voice,  he 
replied : 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"I  am  sure  of  it.  Look  at  those  windows  on  the 
second  story  and  those  hideous  curtains  with  red 
leopards." 

He  shook  his  head. 

"But  certainly  Madame  Cere  lives  there.  At 
this  very  moment  she  is  probably  behind  one  of 
those  red  leopards." 

He  seemed  as  if  he  would  like  to  call  on  her.  I 
expressed  my  surprise. 

"Once  you  could  not  tolerate  her.  That  was 
when  every  one  considered  her  beautiful  and  orna- 
mental; when  she  inspired  fatal  passion  and  tragic 
love  you  used  to  say:  *If  it  were  only  for  the 
coarseness  of  her  skin  the  woman  would  fill  me  with 


THE  INTAGLIO  151 

insurmountable  disgust.  But  besides  she  is  flat- 
chested  and  big-jointed.'  Now,  when  all  her 
charms  have  faded,  have  you  succeeded  in  discover- 
ing one  of  those  little  points  of  beauty,  with  which 
as  you  were  saying  just  now,  we  ought  to  be  con- 
tented? What  do  you  make  of  the  fineness  of  her 
ankle- and  the  nobility  of  her  heart?  A  tall  gawky 
woman  without  bust  or  hips,  who,  as  she  entered  a 
salon,  cast  a  sweeping  gaze  round  the  room,  and 
by  this  simple  trick  attracted  a  crowd  of  those  vain 
and  imbecile  creatures  who  ruin  themselves  for 
women  devoid  of  natural  charms." 

I  paused,  rather  ashamed  of  having  spoken  thus 
of  a  woman.  But  this  woman  had  given  such  abun- 
dant proof  of  her  revolting  malice,  that  I  could  not 
resist  the  feeling  of  repugnance  she  inspired.  In 
truth  I  should  not  have  expressed  myself  thus,  had 
I  not  been  convinced  of  her  falseness  and  her  evil 
disposition.  Moreover  I  had  the  satisfaction  of 
perceiving  that  Du  Fau  had  not  heard  a  single  word 
of  what  I  had  said. 

He  began  to  talk  as  if  to  himself. 

"Whether  I  call  on  her  or  not  it  is  all  the  same. 
For  six  weeks  I  have  visited  nowhere  without  meet- 
ing her.  Houses,  which  I  have  not  entered  for 
many  years,  I  now  return  to,  why  I  know  not! 
Queer  houses  too !" 


152  THE  INTAGLIO 

Unable  to  comprehend  the  lure  which  drew  him, 
I  left  him  there,  standing  in  front  of  the  open  door. 
That  Du  Fau,  who  had  loathed  Madame  Cere  when 
she  was  beautiful,  that  he,  who  had  repulsed  her 
advances  when  she  was  in  her  prime,  should  seek 
her  now  that  she  was  old  and  a  victim  of  drugs, 
must  result  from  a  deterioration  which  I  had  not 
expected  in  my  friend.  Such  an  uncommon  vagary 
I  should  have  declared  impossible  if  in  the  obscure 
domain  of  sensual  pathology  one  could  ever  be  sure 
of  anything. 

A  month  later,  I  left  Paris  without  an  oppor- 
tunity of  again  meeting  Paul  Du  Fau.  After 
spending  a   few  days  in  Brittany,  I  went  to  stay 

with  my  cousin  B at  Trouville.     Her  children 

were  there  with  her.  The  first  week  of  my  visit 
to  the  Chalet  des  Alcyons  was  spent  in  giving  les- 
sons in  water-colours  to  my  nieces,  in  teaching  my 
nephews  to  fence  and  in  hearing  my  cousin  play 
Wagner. 

On  Sunday  morning  I  went  with  the  family  as  far 
as  the  church,  and  while  they  were  at  mass  I  wan- 
dered about  the  town.  Walking  along  the  beach 
road  lined  with  toy  stalls  and  curiosity  shops,  I  saw 
in  front  of  me  Madame  Cere.  Languid,  solitary 
and  forlorn,  she  was  going  down  to  the  bathing- 


THE  INTAGLIO  153 

huts.  The  dragging  of  her  feet  suggested  that  her 
shoes  were  down  at  heel.  Her  frock,  torn  and 
crumpled,  seemed  to  be  dropping  off  her  body. 
For  one  moment  she  looked  round.  Her  hollow 
vacant  eyes  and  her  hanging  lip  positively  alarmed 
me.  While  the  women  cast  sidelong  glances  at 
her,  she  went  on  her  way  dismal  and  indifferent. 

Obviously  the  poor  woman  was  poisoned  with 
morphia.  At  the  end  of  the  street  she  stopped 
before  the  shop  window  of  Madame  Guillot,  and, 
with  her  long  thin  hand,  began  to  feel  the  laces. 
Her  eager  glance  at  that  moment  reminded  me  of 
the  tattle  that  circulated  about  her  in  the  big  shops. 
The  stout  Madame  Guillot,  who  was  showing  out 
some  customers,  appeared  at  the  door.  And 
Madame  Cere,  putting  down  the  lace,  resumed  her 
dreary  walk  to  the  beach. 

"You  haven't  bought  anything  for  a  long  time! 
What  a  bad  customer  you  are !"  cried  Madame 
Guillot  as  she  saw  me.  "Come,  look  at  some 
buckles  and  fans  which  the  young  ladies,  your  nieces, 
thought  very  pretty.  How  good  looking  they 
grow,  the  young  ladies!" 

Then  she  looked  at  the  disappearing  form  of 
Madame  Cere  and  shook  her  head  as  if  to  say: 

"Isn't  it  unfortunate?     Eh?" 

I  had  to  buy  some  paste  buckles  for  my  nieces. 


154  THE  INTAGLIO 

While  my  purchase  was  being  wrapped  up,  through 
the  shop  window  I  saw  Du  Fau  going  down  to  the 
beach.  He  was  walking  very  quickly  with  an  anx- 
ious air.  In  the  manner  of  agitated  persons,  he 
was  biting  his  nails,  which  enabled  me  to  observe 
that  he  wore  the  amethyst  on  his  finger. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  him,  especially  as  he  said 
he  was  going  to  Dinard.  He  has  a  chalet  there 
and  harriers.  When  I  fetched  my  cousin  from 
church,  I  asked  her  whether  she  knew  that  Du  Fau 
was  at  Trouville.  She  nodded.  Then,  slightly 
embarrassed : 

"Our  poor  friend  is  quite  absurd.  He  is  tied  to 
that  woman.     And  really  .  .  ." 

She  paused  and  then  resumed: 

"It  is  he  who  pursues  her.  I  can't  understand 
it." 

Du  Fau  was  indeed  pursuing  her.  In  a  few  days 
I  had  certain  proof  of  it.  I  saw  him  constantly 
dogging  the  steps  of  Madame  Cere  and  of  Mon- 
sieur Cere,  whom  no  one  knows  whether  to  regard 
as  a  stupid  or  an  obliging  husband.  His  dulness 
saves  him  and  makes  it  possible  to  give  him  the 
benefit  of  the  doubt.  Once  this  woman  was  blindly 
set  on  attracting  Du  Fau,  who  is  a  useful  friend  in 
households  ostentatious  but  not  wealthy.  But  Du 
Fau  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  dislike  for  her. 


THE  INTAGLIO  155 

He  used  to  say  in  her  presence:  "An  artificially 
beautiful  woman  is  more  detestable  than  an  ugly 
woman.  The  latter  may  offer  pleasant  surprises. 
The  other  is  naught  but  a  fruit  filled  with  ashes." 
On  that  occasion  the  strength  of  Du  Fau's  feeling 
imparted  to  its  expression  a  biblical  elevation  of 
style.  Now  Madame  Cere  ignored  him.  Grown 
indifferent  to  men,  she  now  cared  only  for  her  De 
Pravaz    syringe  *    and   her    friend,    the    Countess 

V .     These  two  women  were  inseparable;  and 

the  innocence  of  their  friendship  was  thought  to 
be  rendered  possible  by  the  circumstance  that  they 
were  both  moribund.  Nevertheless  Du  Fau  was 
always  with  them  on  their  excursions.  One  day  I 
saw  him  carrying  Monsieur  Cere's  heavy  field- 
glasses  slung  over  his  shoulders.  He  persuaded 
Madame  Cere  to  go  out  in  a  boat  with  him,  and 
the  whole  beach  fixed  its  eyes  upon  them  with  an 
unholy  glee. 

Naturally  enough  while  he  was  in  such  an  igno- 
minious position  I  had  little  desire  for  his  society. 
And  as  he  was  perpetually  in  a  kind  of  somnambu- 
listic state,  I  quitted  Trouville  without  having  ex- 
changed a  dozen  words  with  my  unhappy  friend, 
whom  I  left  a  prey  to  the  Ceres  and  Countess 
V . 

*A  morphia  syringe. 


156  THE  INTAGLIO 

One  evening  in  Paris  I  met  him  again.  It  was 
at  the  house  of  his  friends  and  neighbours,  the 
N 's,  who  are  charming  hosts.  In  the  arrange- 
ment of  their  beautiful  house  in  the  Avenue  Kleber, 

I  recognized  the  excellent  taste  of  Madame  N 

united  to  that  of  Du  Fau,  and  blending  very  har- 
moniously together.  There  were  not  many  pres- 
ent, only  a  few  friends.  As  in  the  past,  Paul  Du 
Fau  displayed  that  turn  of  wit  peculiar  to  him, 
that  refined  delicacy  touched  with  a  flavour  of  the 
most  picturesque  brutality.  Madame  N is  in- 
telligent and  the  conversation  in  her  salon  is  quite 
good.  Nevertheless  when  I  first  entered  the  talk 
was  extremely  commonplace.  A  magistrate,  Mon- 
sieur le  Conseiller  Nicolas,  was  relating  at  length 
that  hackneyed  tale  of  the  sentry  box,  wherein  every 
sentinel  in  turn  committed  suicide,  and  which  had 
to  be  pulled  down  in  order  to  put  a  stop  to  this 

novel    epidemic.     After    which    Madame    N 

asked  me  if  I  believed  in  talismans.  Monsieur  Ic 
Conseiller  Nicolas  relieved  my  embarrassment  by 
saying  that  I,  being  an  unbeliever,  was  bound  to  be 
superstitious. 

*'You  are  quite  right,"  replied  Madame  N . 

"He  believes  neither  in  God  nor  the  devil.  And 
he  adores  stories  of  the  other  world." 


THE  INTAGLIO  157 

I  looked  at  this  charming  woman  while  she  was 
speaking;  and  I  admired  the  unobtrusive  grace  of 
her  cheeks,  her  neck  and  her  shoulders.  Her  whole 
person  gives  one  the  idea  of  something  rare  and 
precious.  I  do  not  know  what  Du  Fau  thinks  of 
Madame  N 's  foot.     To  me  it  is  beautiful. 

Paul  Du  Fau  came  and  shook  hands  with  me. 
I  noticed  that  he  was  no  longer  wearing  his  ring. 

"What  have  you  done  with  your  amethyst?" 

'•I  have  lost  it." 

"What!  An  intaglio  more  beautiful  than  any  in 
Rome  and  Naples!     You  have  lost  it?" 

Without  giving  him  time  to  reply,  N ,  who  is 

always  at  his  side,  exclaimed: 

"Yes,  it  is  a  curious  story.  He  has  lost  his 
amethyst." 

N is  an  excellent  fellow,  very  self-confident, 

a  trifle  diffuse,  and  of  a  simplicity  which  sometimes 
provokes  a  smile.     Noisily  he  called  to  his  wife : 

"Marthe,  my  love,  here  is  some  one  who  has  not 
yet  heard  that  Du  Fau  has  lost  his  amethyst." 

And  turning  to  me: 

"Why,  it  is  quite  a  story.  Would  you  believe 
it?  Our  friend  had  absolutely  forsaken  us.  I 
used  to  say  to  my  wife :  'What  have  you  done  to 
Du  Fau  ?'     She  would  reply :     'What  have  I  done  ? 


158  THE  INTAGLIO 

Why  nothing,  my  love.'  It  was  incomprehensible. 
But  our  astonishment  doubled  when  we  heard  that 
he  was  always  with  that  poor  Madame  Cere." 

Madame  N interrupted  her  husband: 

"What  has  that  got  to  do  with  it?" 

But  N insisted: 

"Excuse  me,  my  lovel  But  I  must  mention  it 
in  order  to  explain  the  history  of  the  amethyst. 
Well,  this  summer  our  friend  Du  Fau  refused  to 
come  with  us  to  the  country  as  he  had  been  in  the 
habit  of  doing.  My  wife  and  I  had  given  him  a 
very  hearty  invitation.  But  he  remained  at  Trou- 
ville,  with  his  cousin  de  Maureil,  in  very  dull  so. 
clety." 

Madame  N protested. 

"It  is  true,"  repeated  N ,  "very  dull  society. 

He  spent  his  time  going  out  in  a  boat  with  Madame 
Cere." 

Du  Fau  calmly  observed  that  there  was  not  one 

word  of  truth  in  what  N was  saying.     The 

latter  putting  his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder  said: 

"I  defy  you  to  contradict  me." 

And  he  finished  his  story. 

"Day  and  night  Du  Fau  went  out  with  Madame 
Cere,  or  with  her  ghost,  for  it  is  said  that  Madame 
Cere  is  nothing  but  the  ghost  of  her  former  self. 
Cere  stayed  on   the   beach   with   his   field-glasses. 


THE  INTAGLIO  159 

During  one  of  these  excursions  Du  Fau  lost  his 
amethyst.  After  this  mischance  he  declined  to  stay 
a  day  longer  at  Trouville.  He  left  the  place  with- 
out bidding  anyone  farewell,  took  train  and  came 
to  us,  at  Les  Eyzies,  where  we  had  given  up  expect- 
ing him.  It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning. 
'Here  I  am,'  he  said  calmly.  There's  eccentricity 
for  you !" 

"And  the  amethyst?"  I  asked. 

"It  is  true,"  replied  Du  Fau,  "that  it  fell  into 
the  sea.  It  lies  buri<?d  in  the  sand.  At  least  no 
fisherman  has  in  the  traditional  manner  brought  it 
to  land  in  the  belly  of  a  fish." 

A  few  days  later,  I  paid  one  of  my  customary 
visits  to  Hendel  in  the  Rue  de  Chateaudun.  And 
I  inquired  whether  he  had  not  some  curiosity  with 
which  to  tempt  me.  He  knows  that  I  am  so  old 
fashioned  as  to  collect  ancient  bronzes  and  marbles. 
Silently  he  opened  a  glass  case,  reserved  for  ama- 
teurs, and  took  out  a  little  Egyptian  scribe  in  pietra 
dura,  of  primitive  workmanship,  a  veritable  treas- 
ure I  When  I  heard  its  price,  I  myself  put  it  back, 
not  without  a  longing  glance.  Then  in  the  case  I 
perceived  the  imprint  in  wax  of  the  intaglio  I  had 
so  much  admired  at  Du  Fau's.  I  recognized  the 
nymph,  the  pillar,  the  laurel.  It  was  beyond  the 
possibility  of  a  doubt. 


i6o  THE  INTAGLIO 

"Did  you  ever  have  the  gem?"  I  asked  Hendel. 

"Yes,  I  sold  it  last  year." 

**A  fine  gem!     Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"It  came  from  the  collection  of  Mark  Delion, 
the  financier,  who  five  years  ago  committed  suicide 
on  account  of  a  society  lady.  .  .  .  Madame  .  .  . 
perhaps  you  know  her  .  .  .  Madame  Cere." 


LA  SIGNORA  CHIARA 


TO  UGO  OJETTI 


LA    SIGNORA    CHIARA 

IROFESSOR    GIACOMO   TEDES- 

CHI  of  Naples  is  a  doctor  well 
known  in  the  town.  His  house, 
which  is  decidedly  odoriferous,  is 
near  the  Incoronata.  It  is  fre- 
quented by  all  kinds  of  persons,  and  particularly  by 
the  beautiful  maidens  who  at  Santa  Lucia  traffic  in 
the  harvest  of  the  sea.  He  sells  drugs  for  all 
maladies;  he  is  not  above  extracting  a  decayed 
tooth;  he  is  an  adept,  the  day  after  a  festival,  at 
sewing  up  the  gaping  skin  of  a  bravo;  and  he  knows 
how  to  use  the  longshore  dialect  interpersed 
with  academical  Latin  so  as  to  impart  confidence  to 
his  patients  laid  out  on  the  longest,  the  most  rickety, 
the  most  creaking  and  the  dirtiest  operating-chair 
to  be  found  in  any  seaport  in  the  universe.  He  is 
a  man  of  slender  build,  of  full  face,  with  little  green 
eyes  and  a  long  nose  overhanging  a  thin-lipped 
mouth;  his  round  shoulders,  his  pot  belly  and  his 
thin  legs  recall  the  pantaloon  of  bygone  times. 

Late  in  life  Giacomo  married  the  young  Chiara 
Mammi,  daughter  of  an  old  convict  highly  esteemed 
in  Naples,   who,   having  become   a  baker  on  the 

163 


1 64  LA  SIGNORA  CHIARA 

Borgo  di  Santo,  died  lamented  by  the  whole  town. 
Ripened  by  the  sun  which  gilds  the  grapes  of  Torre 
and  the  oranges  of  Sorrento,  the  beauty  of  Chiara 
blossomed  in  glowing  splendour. 

Professor  Giacomo  Tedeschi  held  the  fitting  be- 
lief that  his  wife  was  as  virtuous  as  she  was  beauti- 
ful. Moreover  he  knew  how  strong  is  the  senti- 
ment of  feminine  honour  in  a  bandit's  family.  But 
he  was  a  doctor  and  aware  of  the  disturbances  and 
weaknesses  to  which  the  nature  of  woman  is  liable. 
He  felt  some  anxiety  when  Ascanio  Ranieri  of 
Milan,  who  had  set  up  as  ladies'  tailor  on  the 
Piazza  dei  Martiri,  took  to  visiting  his  house.  As- 
canio was  young,  handsome  and  always  smiling. 
The  daughter  of  the  heroic  Mammi,  the  patriot 
baker,  was  certainly  too  good  a  Neapolitan  to  for- 
get her  duty  with  a  townsman  of  Milan.  Never- 
theless Ascanio  showed  a  preference  for  visiting 
the  house  near  the  Incoronata  during  the  doctor's 
absence,  and  the  signora  willingly  received  him  un- 
chaperoned. 

One  day  when  the  Professor  came  home  earlier 
than  he  was  expected,  he  surprised  Ascanio  on  his 
knees  to  Chiara.  While  the  signora  departed  with 
the  measured  step  of  a  goddess,  Ascanio  rose  to 
his  feet. 


LA  SIGNORA  CHIARA  165 

Giacomo  Tedeschi  approached  him  with  every 
sign  of  the  most  anxious  solicitude. 

"My  friend,  I  see  that  you  are  ill.  You  did  well 
to  come  to  see  me.  I  am  a  doctor  and  vowed  to 
the  relief  of  human  suffering.  You  are  in  pain, 
do  not  deny  it.  Your  face  is  aflame.  It  is  head- 
ache, an  acute  headache,  doubtless.  How  wise  of 
you  to  come  to  see  me.  You  were  waiting  for  me 
impatiently,  I  am  sure.  Yes,  a  terrible  headache." 
While  uttering  these  words,  the  old  man,  strong 
as  a  Sabine  bull,  was  pushing  Ascanio  into  his  con- 
sulting-room and  forcing  him  to  recline  in  that 
famous  operating-chair,  which  for  forty  years  had 
borne  the  weight  of  suffering  Neapolitans. 

Then  holding  him  inexorably  there: 

"I  see  what  it  is,  your  tooth  is  aching.  That's 
it!     Yes,  your  toothache  is  very  bad." 

He  took  from  a  case  an  enormous  dentist's 
forceps,  prised  open  his  capacious  mouth  and  with 
a  turn  of  the  forceps  pulled  out  a  tooth. 

Ascanio  fled,  spitting  blood  from  his  streaming 
jaw,  and  Professor  Giacomo  Tedeschi  shrieked 
after  him  with  savage  joy : 

"A  fine  tooth!  a  fine,  a  very  fine  tooth!  .  .  ." 


UPRIGHT  JUDGES 


TO  MADAME  MARCELLE  TINAYRE 


UPRIGHT  JUDGES 

PRIGHT  judges  I  have  indeed  seen," 
said  Jean  Marteau.  "It  was  in  a 
picture.  I  had  gone  to  Belgium  to 
escape  from  an  inquisitive  magis- 
trate, who  insisted  that  I  had  con- 
spired with  anarchists.  I  did  not  know  my  accom- 
plices and  my  accomplices  did  not  know  me.  But 
that  presented  no  difficulty  to  the  magistrate. 
Nothing  embarrassed  him.  Though  he  was  per- 
petually weighing  evidence  his  sense  of  values  re- 
mained undeveloped.  His  persistence  terrified  me. 
I  went  to  Belgium  and  stopped  at  Antwerp,  where 
I  became  a  grocer's  assistant.  In  the  picture  gal- 
lery one  Sunday  I  saw  two  upright  judges  in  a  paint- 
ing by  Mabuse.  They  are  of  a  type  now  extinct. 
I  mean  the  type  of  peripatetic  judges  who  used  to 
travel  at  a  jog-trot  on  their  ambling  nags.  Foot 
soldiers,  armed  with  lances  and  partisans  form  their 
escort.  Bearded  and  hairy,  these  two  judges,  like 
the  kings  in  old  Flemish  Bibles,  wear  an  eccentric 
yet  magnificent  headdress  suggestive  at  once  of  a 
nightcap  and  a  diadem.  Their  brocaded  robes  are 
richly  adorned.     The  old  master  has  succeeded  in 

169 


17©  UPRIGHT  JUDGES 

imparting  to  them  a  grave,  calm  and  gentle  air. 
Their  horses  are  as  mild  and  calm  as  they.  Never- 
theless these  two  judges  differed  both  in  character 
and  in  point  of  view.  You  can  see  that  at  once. 
One  holds  a  paper  in  his  hand  and  with  his  finger 
points  to  the  text.  The  other,  his  left  hand  on  the 
pommel  of  his  saddle,  is  raising  his  right  with  more 
benevolence  than  authority.  Between  thumb  and 
forefinger  he  appears  to  be  holding  an  impalpable 
powder.  And  the  hand  thus  carefully  posed  for 
this  gesture  suggests  an  intellect  cautious  and  subtle. 
They  are  upright  both  of  them,  but  obviously  the 
first  adheres  to  the  letter,  the  second  to  the  spirit. 
Leaning  against  the  rail  which  separates  them  from 
the  public,  I  listened  to  their  talk.  Said  the  first 
judge : 

"  *I  hold  to  the  written  word.  The  first  law  was 
written  on  stone  as  a  sign  that  it  would  last  as  long 
as  the  world.' 

"The  other  judge  made  answer: 

"  'Every  law  is  out  of  date  as  soon  as  it  is 
written.  For  the  hand  of  the  scribe  is  slow,  the 
mind  of  man  is  nimble  and  his  destiny  is  uncertain.' 

"Then  these  two  excellent  old  men  pursued  their 
sententious  discussion : 

First  judge.     The  law  is  stable. 

Second  judge.     The  law  is  never  fixed. 


UPRIGHT  JUDGES  171 

First  judge.  Coming  forth  from  God  it  is  im- 
mutable. 

Second  judge.  Proceeding  naturally  from  society 
it  is  dependent  upon  the  changing  conditions  of  this 
life. 

First  judge.  It  is  the  will  of  God,  which 
changeth  not. 

Second  judge.  It  is  the  will  of  man  which 
changeth  ever. 

First  judge.  It  was  before  man  and  is  superior 
to  him. 

Second  judge.  It  is  of  man,  infirm  as  he,  and 
like  unto  him  capable  of  perfection. 

First  judge.  Judge,  open  thy  book  and  read 
what  is  written  therein.  For  it  is  God  who  dictated 
to  such  as  believed  In  Him :  Sic  locutus  est  patribus 
nostris,  Abraham  et  semini  ejus  in  sacula. 

Second  judge.  That  which  is  written  by  the  dead 
will  be  erased  by  the  living.  Were  it  not  so, 
the  will  of  those  who  have  passed  away  would  im- 
pose itself  upon  those  who  yet  survive;  and 
the  dead  would  be  the  living  and  the  living  the 
dead. 

First  judge.  To  laws  prescribed  by  the  dead 
the  living  owe  obedience.  The  quick  and  the 
dead  are  contemporary  before  God.  Moses  and 
Cyrus,  Caesar,  Justinian  and  the  Emperor  of  Al- 


172  UPRIGHT  JUDGES 

maine  yet  reign  over  us.  For  in  the  sight  of  the 
Eternal  One  we  are  their  contemporaries. 

Second  judge.  The  living  owe  obedience  to  the 
laws  prescribed  by  the  living.  For  our  instruction 
in  that  which  is  permitted  and  that  which  is  for- 
bidden Zoroaster  and  Numa  Pompilius  rank  below 
the  cobbler  of  Saint  Gudule. 

First  judge.  The  first  laws  were  revealed  to  us 
by  the  Infinite  Wisdom.  The  best  laws  are  those 
which  are  nearest  to  that  source. 

Second  judge.  Do  you  not  see  that  every  day 
new  laws  are  made  and  that  Constitutions  and  codes 
differ  according  to  time  and  place? 

First  judge.  New  laws  proceed  from  those  that 
are  ancient.  They  are  young  branches  of  the 
same  tree  nourished  by  the  same  sap. 

Second  judge.  From  the  ancient  tree  of  the  law 
there  is  distilled  a  bitter  juice.  Ceaselessly  is  the 
axe  laid  unto  that  tree. 

First  judge.  It  is  not  for  the  judge  to  inquire 
whether  the  laws  are  just,  since  they  must  neces- 
sarily be  so.    He  has  only  to  administer  them  justly. 

Second  judge.  It  is  for  us  to  inquire  whether 
the  law  that  we  administer  be  just  or  unjust,  because 
if  we  discover  it  to  be  unjust,  it  is  possible  for  us  to 
introduce  some  modification  into  the  application 
we  are  forced  to  make  of  it. 


UPRIGHT  JUDGES  173 

First  judge.  The  criticism  of  laws  is  not  compat- 
ible with  the  respect  we  owe  to  them. 

Second  judge.  If  we  do  not  recognize  the  se- 
verity of  the  law  how  can  we  temper  it? 

First  judge.  We  are  judges,  not  legislators  or 
philosophers. 

Second  judge.     We  are  men. 

First  judge.  A  man  is  incapable  of  judging  men. 
A  judge,  when  he  goes  to  the  seat  of  justice,  puts 
off  his  humanity.  He  assumes  divinity  and  no 
longer  tastes  either  joy  or  sorrow. 

Second  judge.  When  justice  is  not  dis- 
pensed with  sympathy  it  becomes  the  cruellest  in- 
justice. 

First  judge.     Justice  is  perfect  when  It  is  literal. 

Second  judge.  When  justice  is  not  spiritual  it  is 
absurd. 

First  judge.  The  principle  of  laws  is  divine  and 
the  consequences  which  flow  from  them  are  no  less 
divine.  But  even  if  law  were  not  wholly  of  God, 
if  it  were  wholly  of  man,  it  would  still  be  necessary 
to  administer  it  according  to  the  letter.  For  the 
letter  is  fixed,  the  spirit  Is  fleeting. 

Second  judge.  Law  is  wholly  of  man.  It  was 
born  foolish  and  cruel  In  the  early  glimmerings  of 
human  reason.  But  were  It  of  divine  essence.  It 
should  be  followed  according  to  the  spirit  not  ac- 


174  UPRIGHT  JUDGES 

cording  to  the  letter,  for  the  letter  is  dead  and  the 
spirit  is  living. 

"Having  thus  conversed,  the  two  upright  judges 
dismounted  and  with  their  escort  approached  the 
Tribunal,  whither  they  must  go,  in  order  to  render 
unto  each  man  his  due.  Their  horses,  tied  to  a 
stake,  under  a  great  elm,  conversed  together.  The 
first  judge's  horse  spoke  first: 

"  'When  horses  inherit  the  earth,'  he  said  (and 
the  earth  will  doubtless  belong  to  them  one  day,  for 
the  horse  is  obviously  the  ultimate  end  and  the  final 
object  of  creation),  'when  the  earth  is  the  horse's 
and  we  are  free  to  act  as  we  will,  we  will  live  under 
laws  like  men  and  we  will  take  delight  in  imprison- 
ing, hanging  and  breaking  on  the  wheel  our  fellow 
creatures.  We  will  be  moral  beings.  It  shall  be 
proved  by  the  prisons,  the  gibbets  and  the  strap- 
pados which  shall  be  erected  in  our  towns.  There 
shall  be  legislative  horses.  What  do  you  think 
Roussin  ?' 

"Roussin,  who  was  the  second  judge's  steed,  re- 
plied that  in  his  opinion  the  horse  was  the  king  of 
creation  and  he  confidently  hoped  that  sooner  or 
later  his  kingdom  would  come. 

**  'And  when  we  have  built  towns,  Blanchet,* 
he  added,  *we  must,  as  you  say,  establish  a  system 
of  police  in  them.     In  those  days  I  would  have  the 


UPRIGHT  JUDGES  175 

laws  of  horses  equine,  that  is  favourable  to  horses 
and  for  the  equine  weal.' 

"  'What  do  you  mean  by  that,  Roussin?'  asked 
Blanchet. 

"  *My  meaning  is  the  natural  one.  I  demand 
that  the  law  shall  secure  for  each  his  share  of  corn 
and  his  place  in  the  stable,  and  that  each  be  per- 
mitted to  love  as  he  will  during  the  season.  For 
there  is  a  time  for  everything.  In  short  I  would 
have  the  laws  of  horses  in  conformity  with  nature.' 

"  'I  hope,'  replied  Blanchet,  'that  the  ideas  of 
our  legislators  will  be  more  elevated  than  yours, 
Blanchet.  They  will  make  laws  according  as  they 
are  inspired  by  that  celestial  horse  who  has  created 
all  horses.  He  is  all  good  since  he  is  all  powerful. 
Power  and  goodness  are  his  attributes.  He  fore- 
ordained his  creatures  to  endure  the  bit,  to  drag 
at  the  halter,  to  feel  the  spur  and  to  die  beneath 
the  whip.  You  talk  of  love,  comrade;  he  ordained 
that  many  of  us  should  be  made  geldings.  It  is  his 
command.  The  laws  must  maintain  this  worshipful 
behest.' 

"  'But  are  you  quite  sure,  my  friend,'  inquired 
Roussin,  'that  these  evils  proceed  from  the  celestial 
horse  that  has  created  us,  and  not  merely  from  man 
his  inferior  creation?' 

"  'Men  are  the  ministers  and  the  angels  of  the 


176  UPRIGHT  JUDGES 

celestial  horse,'  replied  Blanchet.  'His  will  is 
manifest  in  everything  that  happens.  His  will  is 
good.  Since  he  wishes  us  ill,  it  must  be  that  ill 
is  good.  If  therefore  the  law  is  to  do  us  good  it 
must  make  us  suffer.  And  in  the  Empire  of  horses 
we  shall  be  constrained  and  tortured  in  every  way, 
by  means  of  edicts,  decrees,  sentences,  judgments 
and  ordinances  in  order  to  please  the  heavenly 
horse. 

"  'Roussin,*  added  Blanchet,  'you  must  have  the 
head  of  an  ass  not  to  understand  that  the  horse  was 
brought  into  the  world  to  suffer,  and  that  if  he  does 
not  suffer  he  fails  to  fulfil  his  destiny  and  that  from 
happy  horses  the  heavenly  horse  turns  away  his 
face.'  " 


THE  OCEAN  CHRIST 


TO  IVAN  STRANNIK 


THE  OCEAN  CHRIST 


w  m 


HAT  year  many  of  the  fishers  of 
Saint-Valery  had  been  drowned  at 
sea.  Their  bodies  were  found  on 
the  beach  cast  up  by  the  waves  with 
the  wreckage  of  their  boats;  and  for 
nine  days,  up  the  steep  road  leading  to  the  church 
were  to  be  seen  coffins  borne  by  hand  and  followed 
by  widows,  who  were  weeping  beneath  their  great 
black-hooded  cloaks,  like  women  in  the  Bible. 

Thus  were  the  skipper  Jean,  Lenoel  and  his  son 
Desire  laid  in  the  great  nave,  beneath  the  vaulted 
roof  from  which  they  had  once  hung  a  ship  in  full 
rigging  ^s  an  offering  to  Our  Lady.  They  were 
righteous  men  and  God-fearing.  Monsieur  Guil- 
laume  Trupheme,  priest  of  Saint-Valery,  having 
pronounced  the  Absolution,  said  in  a  tearful  voice: 
"Never  were  laid  in  consecrated  ground  there  to 
await  the  judgment  of  God  better  men  and  better 
Christians  than  Jean  Lenoel  and  his  son  Desire." 
And  while  barques  and  their  skippers  perished 
near  the  coast,  in  the  high  seas  great  vessels  foun- 
dered.    Not  a  day  passed  that  the  ocean  did  not 

179 


i8o  THE  OCEAN  CHRIST 

bring  in  some  flotsam  of  wreck.  Now  one  morn- 
ing some  children  who  were  steering  a  boat  saw  a 
figure  lying  on  the  sea.  It  was  a  figure  of  Jesus 
Christ,  life-size,  carved  in  wood,  painted  in  natural 
colouring,  and  looking  as  if  it  were  very  old.  The 
Good  Lord  was  floating  upon  the  sea  with  arms 
outstretched.  The  children  towed  the  figure  ashore 
and  brought  it  up  into  Saint-Valery.  The  head 
was  encircled  with  the  crown  of  thorns.  The  feet 
and  hands  were  pierced.  But  the  nails  were  miss- 
ing as  well  as  the  cross.  The  arms  were  still  out- 
stretched ready  for  sacrifice  and  blessing,  just  as 
He  appeared  to  Joseph  of  Arimathea  and  the  holy 
women  when  they  were  burying  him. 

The  children  gave  it  to  Monsieur  le  Cure 
Trupheme,  who  said  to  them: 

"This  image  of  the  Saviour  is  of  ancient  work- 
manship. He  who  made  it  must  have  died  long 
ago.  Although  to-day  in  the  shops  of  Amiens  and 
Paris  excellent  statues  are  sold  for  a  hundred  francs 
and  more,  we  must  admit  that  the  earlier  sculptors 
were  not  without  merit.  But  what  delights  mc 
most  is  the  thought  that  if  Jesus  Christ  be  thus 
come  with  open  arms  to  Saint-Valery,  it  is  in  order 
to  bless  the  parish,  which  has  been  so  cruelly  tried, 
and  in  order  to  announce  that  he  has  compassion 
on  the  poor  folk  who  go  a-fishing  at  the  risk  of 


THE  OCEAN  CHRIST  i8i 

their  lives.  He  is  the  God  who  walked  upon  the 
sea  and  blessed  the  nets  of  Cephas." 

And  Monsieur  le  Cure  Trupheme,  having  had 
the  Christ  placed  in  the  church  on  the  cloth  of  the 
high  altar,  went  off  to  order  from  the  carpenter 
Lemerre  a  beautiful  cross  in  heart  of  oak. 

When  it  was  made,  the  Saviour  was  nailed  to  it 
with  brand  new  nails,  and  it  was  erected  in  the  nave 
above  the  churchwarden's  pew. 

Then  it  was  noticed  that  His  eyes  were  filled  with 
mercy  and  seemed  to  glisten  with  tears  of  heavenly 
pity. 

One  of  the  churchwardens,  who  was  present  at 
the  putting  up  of  the  crucifix,  fancied  he  saw  tears 
streaming  down  the  divine  face.  The  next  morning 
when  Monsieur  le  Cure  with  a  choir-boy  entered 
the  church  to  say  his  mass,  he  was  astonished  to  find 
the  cross  above  the  churchwarden's  pew  empty  and 
the  Christ  lying  upon  the  altar. 

As  soon  as  he  had  celebrated  the  divine  sacrifice 
he  had  the  carpenter  called  and  asked  him  why  he 
had  taken  the  Christ  down  from  his  cross.  But  the 
carpenter  replied  that  he  had  not  touched  it. 
Then,  after  having  questioned  the  beadle  and  the 
sidesmen,  Monsieur  Trupheme  made  certain  that 
no  one  had  entered  the  church  since  the  crucifix 
had  been  placed  over  the  churchwarden's  pew. 


1 82  THE  OCEAN  CHRIST 

Thereupon  he  felt  that  these  things  were  mirac- 
ulous, and  he  meditated  upon  them  discreetly. 
The  following  Sunday  in  his  exhortation  he  spoke 
of  them  to  his  parishioners,  and  he  called  upon 
them  to  contribute  by  their  gifts  to  the  erection  of 
a  new  cross  more  beautiful  than  the  first  and  more 
worthy  to  bear  the  Redeemer  of  the  world. 

The  poor  fishers  of  Saint-Valery  gave  as  much 
money  as  they  could  and  the  widows  brought  their 
wedding-rings.  Wherefore  Monsieur  Trupheme 
was  able  to  go  at  once  to  Abbeville  and  to  order 
a  cross  of  ebony  highly  polished  and  surmounted 
by  a  scroll  with  the  inscription  I.N. R.I.  in  letters 
of  gold.  Two  months  later  it  was  erected  in  the 
place  of  the  former  and  the  Christ  was  nailed  to  it 
between  the  lance  and  the  sponge. 

But  Jesus  left  this  cross  as  He  had  left  the  other; 
and  as  soon  as  night  fell  He  went  and  stretched 
Himself  upon  the  altar. 

Monsieur  le  Cure,  when  he  found  Him  there  in 
the  morning,  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed  for  a 
long  while.  The  fame  of  this  miracle  spread 
throughout  the  neighbourhood,  and  the  ladies  of 
Amiens  made  a  collection  for  the  Christ  of  Saint- 
Valery.  Monsieur  Trupheme  received  money  and 
jewels  from  Paris,  and  the  wife  of  the  Minister 


THE  OCEAN  CHRIST  183 

of  Marine,  Madame  Hyde  de  Neuvllle,  sent  him  a 
heart  of  diamonds.  Of  all  these  treasures,  in  the 
space  of  two  years,  a  goldsmith  of  La  Rue  St. 
Sulpice,  fashioned  a  cross  of  gold  and  precious 
stones  which  was  set  up  with  great  pomp  in  the 
church  of  Saint- Valery  on  the  second  Sunday  after 
Easter  in  the  year  18 — .  But  He  who  had  not 
refused  the  cross  of  sorrow,  fled  from  this  cross 
of  gold  and  again  stretched  Himself  upon  the  white 
linen  of  the  altar. 

For  fear  of  offending  Him  He  was  left  there 
this  time;  and  He  had  lain  upon  the  altar  for 
more  than  two  years,  when  Pierre,  son  of  Pierre 
Caillou,  came  to  tell  Monsieur  le  Cure  Trupheme 
that  he  had  found  the  true  cross  of  Our  Lord  on 
the  beach. 

Pierre  was  an  Innocent;  and,  because  he  had  not 
sense  enough  to  earn  a  livelihood,  people  gave  him 
bread  out  of  charity;  he  was  liked  because  he  never 
did  any  harm.  But  he  wandered  in  his  talk  and 
no  one  listened  to  him. 

Nevertheless  Monsieur  Trupheme,  who  had 
never  ceased  meditating  on  the  Ocean  Christ,  was 
struck  by  what  the  poor  imbecile  had  just  said. 
With  the  beadle  and  two  sidesmen  he  went  to  the 
spot,  where  the  child  said  he  had  seen  a  cross,  and 


1 84  THE  OCEAN  CHRIST 

there  he  found  two  planks  studded  with  nails,  which 
had  long  been  washed  by  the  sea  and  which  did 
indeed  form  a  cross. 

They  were  the  remains  of  some  old  shipwreck. 
On  one  of  these  boards  could  still  be  read  two  let- 
ters painted  in  black,  a  J  and  an  L;  and  there  was 
no  doubt  that  this  was  a  fragment  of  Jean  Lenoel's 
barque,  he  who  with  his  son  Desire  had  been  lost 
at  sea  five  years  before. 

At  the  sight  of  this,  the  beadle  and  the  sidesmen 
began  to  laugh  at  the  innocent  who  had  taken  the 
broken  planks  of  a  boat  for  the  cross  of  Jesus 
Christ.  But  Monsieur  le  Cure  Trupheme  checked 
their  merriment.  He  had  meditated  much  and 
prayed  long  since  the  Ocean  Christ  had  arrived 
among  the  fisherfolk,  and  the  mystery  of  infinite 
charity  began  to  dawn  upon  him.  He  knelt  down 
upon  the  sand,  repeated  the  prayer  for  the  faithful 
departed,  and  then  told  the  beadle  and  the  sides- 
men to  carry  the  flotsam  on  their  shoulders  and  to 
place  it  in  the  church.  When  this  had  been  done 
he  raised  the  Christ  from  the  altar,  placed  it  on  the 
planks  of  the  boat  and  himself  nailed  It  to  them, 
with  the  nails  that  the  ocean  had  corroded. 

By  the  priest's  command,  the  very  next  day  this 
cross  took  the  place  of  the  cross  of  gold  and  pre- 
cious stones  over  the  churchwarden's  pew.     The 


THE  OCEAN  CHRIST  185 

Ocean  Christ  has  never  left  it.  He  has  chosen  to 
remain  nailed  to  the  planks  on  which  men  died  in- 
voking His  name  and  that  of  His  Mother.  There, 
with  parted  lips,  august  and  afflicted  He  seems  to 
say: 

"My  cross  is  made  of  all  men's  woes,  for  I  am  in 
truth  the  God  of  the  poor  and  the  heavy-laden." 


JEAN    MARTEAU 


JEAN  MARTEAU 
I 

A  DREAM 

HE  talk  fell  on  sleep  and  dreams. 
Jean  Marteau  said  that  one  dream 
had  left  an  indelible  impression  on 
his  mind. 

"Was    it    a    prophetic    dream?" 
inquired  Monsieur  Goubin. 

"In  itself,"  replied  Jean  Marteau,  "the  dream 
was  not  remarkable,  not  even  for  its  incoherence. 
But  its  images  presented  themselves  with  a  painful 
vividness  which  is  quite  unique.  Nothing  I  ever 
experienced,  nothing,  was  ever  so  real  to  me,  so 
actual  as  the  visions  of  this  dream.  In  that  lies  its 
interest.  It  enabled  me  to  understand  the  illusions 
of  a  mystic.  Had  I  been  less  rational  I  should 
certainly  have  taken  it  to  be  an  apocalypse  and  a 
revelation,  and  I  should  have  derived  therefrom 
principles  of  conduct  and  a  rule  of  life.  I  ought  to 
tell  you  that  I  dreamed  this  dream  under  peculiar 
circumstances.  It  was  in  the  spring  of  1895;  I 
was  twenty.     Having  recently  arrived  in  Paris  I 

189 


I90  •  JEAN  MARTEAU 

was  in  difficulties.  That  night  I  had  Iain  down  in  a 
copse  of  the  Versailles  wood.  I  had  eaten  nothing 
for  twenty-four  hours.  I  suffered  no  pain.  I  was 
in  a  state  of  calm  and  ease,  disturbed  occasionally 
by  a  feeling  of  anxiety.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I 
was  neither  asleep  nor  awake.  A  little  girl,  quite 
a  little  girl  in  a  blue-hooded  cape,  and  a  white 
apron,  was  walking  with  crutches  over  a  plain. 
With  every  step  she  took  her  crutches  grew  and 
raised  her  like  stilts.  They  soon  became  higher 
than  the  poplars  on  the  river's  bank.  A  woman 
who  saw  my  surprise  said  to  me :  'Don't  you  know 
that  in  the  spring  crutches  grow?  But  there  are 
times  when  the  size  increases  with  alarming  ra- 
pidity.' 

"A  man  whose  face  I  could  not  see,  added:  *It 
is  the  climacteric  hour.' 

"Then  with  a  soft  and  mysterious  sound  which 
alarmed  me,  all  around  me  the  grass  began  to  grow. 
I  arose  and  reached  a  plain  covered  with  wan  plants, 
cottony  and  dead.  There  I  met  Vernaux,  who  was 
my  only  friend  in  Paris,  where  he  lived  as  penu- 
riously  as  I.  Long  we  walked  side  by  side  in  si- 
lence. In  the  sky  the  stars,  huge  and  rayless,  were 
like  discs  of  pale  gold. 

"I  knew  the  cause  of  this  appearance  and  I  ex- 


JEAN  MARTEAU  191 

plained  it  to  Vernaux:  *It  is  an  optical  phenom- 
enon,' I  said,  'our  eyes  are  out  of  focus.' 

"And  with  infinite  care  and  minuteness  I  engaged 
in  a  demonstration  which  chiefly  turned  upon  the 
exact  correspondence  between  the  human  eye  and 
the  astronomical  telescope.  While  I  was  reasoning 
thus,  Vernaux  found  on  the  ground  some  leaden- 
coloured  grass,  an  enormous  black  hat,  boat  shaped, 
with  a  brim,  a  band  of  gold  braid  and  a  diamond 
buckle.  Putting  it  on  his  head,  he  said :  'It  is  the 
lord  mayor's  hat.'  'Obviously,'  I  replied,  and  I 
resumed  my  demonstration.  So  arduous  was  it  that 
the  perspiration  dropped  from  my  forehead.  I  was 
always  losing  the  thread  and  beginning  again 
vaguely  with  the  phrase :  'The  great  saurians  who 
swam  in  the  tepid  waters  of  the  primitive  ocean  had 
eyes  constructed  like  a  telescope.  .  .  .' 

"I  continued  until  I  perceived  that  Vernaux  had 
disappeared.  It  was  not  long  before  I  found  him 
again  in  a  hollow.  He  was  on  a  spit,  roasting  over 
a  brushwood  fire.  Indians  with  their  hair  tied  on 
the  tops  of  their  heads  were  basting  him  with  a 
long-handled  spoon  and  were  turning  the  spit.  In 
a  clear  voice  Vernaux  said  to  me:  'Melanie  has 
been  here.' 

"Then  only  did  I  perceive  that  he  had  the  head 


192  JEAN  MARTEAU 

and  neck  of  a  chicken.  But  all  I  could  think  of  was 
how  to  find  Melanie,  who,  by  a  sudden  inspiration 
I  knew  to  be  the  most  beautiful  of  women.  I  ran, 
and,  having  reached  the  edge  of  a  wood,  by  the 
moonlight  I  saw  a  white  form  fleeting  before  me. 
Hair  of  a  glorious  red  fell  over  her  neck.  A  silver 
light  caressed  her  shoulders,  a  blue  shadow  filled 
the  hollow  in  the  middle  of  her  gleaming  back;  and, 
as  she  ran,  her  dimples  in  their  rise  and  fall  seemed 
to  smile  with  a  divine  smile.  I  distinctly  saw  the 
azure  shadow  on  her  leg  augment  or  diminish  ac- 
cording to  the  motion  of  the  limb.  I  noticed  also 
the  pink  soles  of  her  feet.  Long  did  I  pursue  her 
without  fatigue  and  with  a  step  light  as  the  flight 
of  a  bird.  But  a  dark  shadow  veiled  her,  and  her 
perpetual  flight  led  me  into  a  path  so  narrow  that 
it  was  blocked  completely  by  a  little  iron  stove. 
It  was  one  of  those  stoves  with  long  bent  pipes 
which  are  used  in  studios.  It  was  at  a  white  heat. 
The  door  was  incandescent  and  all  around  the  metal 
was  red  hot.  A  cat  with  its  hair  all  shorn  was  sit- 
ting on  it  and  looking  at  me.  As  I  drew  near  I 
perceived  through  the  cracks  in  its  scorched  skin 
an  ardent  mass  of  liquid  metal  which  filled  its  body. 
It  was  miauling,  and  I  understood  that  it  was  ask- 
ing for  water.  In  order  to  find  some,  I  descended 
the  slope  on  which  was  a  cool  wood  of  birch  and 


JEAN  MARTEAU  193 

ash  trees.  A  stream  ran  through  it  at  the  bottom 
of  a  ravine.  But  I  could  not  approach  it  on  ac- 
count of  the  blocks  of  sandstone  and  tufts  of  dwarf 
oaks  by  which  it  was  overhung.  As  I  slipped  on  a 
mossy  stone  my  left  arm  came  away  from  my  shoul- 
der without  causing  a  wound  or  any  pain.  I  took  it 
in  my  right  hand ;  it  was  cold  and  numb ;  its  touch 
made  me  shudder.  I  reflected  that  now  I  was  in 
danger  of  losing  it  and  how  wearisome  a  drudgery 
it  would  be  for  the  rest  of  my  life  to  have  to  watch 
ceaselessly  over  it.  I  resolved  to  order  an  ebony 
box  wherein  I  might  keep  it  when  it  was  not  in  use. 
As  it  was  very  cold  in  this  damp  hollow  I  quitted  it 
by  a  rustic  path  which  led  me  on  to  a  wind-swept 
plateau,  where  all  the  trees  were  bent  as  if  in  sor- 
row. There  along  a  yellow  road  a  procession  was 
passing.  It  was  countrified  and  humble,  just  like 
the  Rogation  procession  in  the  village  of  Brece, 
which  our  Master,  Monsieur  Bergeret,  knows  so 
well.  There  was  nothing  singular  about  the  clergy, 
the  confraternities,  or  the  faithful  except  that  no 
one  had  any  feet  and  that  they  all  moved  upon  little 
wheels.  Under  the  canopy  I  recognized  Monsieur 
I'Abbe  Lantaigne,  who  had  become  village  priest 
and  was  weeping  tears  of  blood.  I  wanted  to  call 
out  to  him:  'I  am  ministre  plenipotentiaire.' 
But  my  voice  choked  in  my  throat,   and  a  great 


194  JEAN  MARTEAU 

shadow  coming  down  upon  me  caused  me  to  raise 
my  head.  It  was  one  of  the  little  lame  girl's 
crutches.  They  had  now  ascended  into  the  sky 
some  thousand  metres  and  I  perceived  the  child  like 
a  little  black  spot  against  the  moon.  The  stars  had 
grown  still  larger  and  paler,  and  among  them  I 
distinguished  three  planets,  the  spherical  form  of 
which  was  quite  visible  to  the  eye.  I  even  thought 
I  could  recognize  spots  on  their  surface.  But  these 
spots  did  not  correspond  to  the  drawings  of  those 
on  Mars,  Jupiter  and  Saturn  which  I  had  once  seen 
in  astronomical  books. 

"My  friend  Vernaux  having  come  up,  I  asked 
him  whether  he  could  not  see  the  canals  on  the 
planet  Mars.     'The  Ministry  is  defeated,'  he  said. 

"He  bore  no  sign  of  the  spit  I  had  seen  trans- 
fixing him,  but  he  still  had  a  chicken's  head  and 
neck,  and  he  was  dripping  with  gravy.  I  felt  an  un- 
controllable desire  to  demonstrate  my  optical 
theory  to  him  and  to  resume  my  argument  where  I 
had  left  it.  'The  great  saurians,'  I  said,  'which 
swam  in  the  tepid  waters  of  the  primitive  ocean  had 
eyes  constructed  like  a  telescope.  .  .  .' 

"Instead  of  listening  to  me,  he  went  up  to  a 
reading-desk,  which  was  there  in  the  field,  opened 
an  anti-phonary  and  began  to  crow  like  a  cock. 

"Out  of  all  patience,  I  turned  my  back  on  him 


JEAN  MARTEAU  195 

and  jurrped  into  a  tram  that  was  passing.  Inside  I 
found  a  vast  dining-hall,  like  those  in  great  hotels 
or  on  board  Atlantic  liners.  It  was  all  flowers  and 
glass.  As  far  as  one  could  see  there  were  seated 
at  table  women  in  low  frocks  and  men  in  evening 
dress  in  front  of  candelabra  and  crystal  chandeliers 
forming  an  infinite  vista  of  light.  A  steward  came 
round  with  meat  to  which  I  helped  myself.  But  it 
emitted  a  disgusting  odour  and  it  made  me  feel  sick 
before  I  tasted  it.  Besides  /  was  not  hungry.  The 
diners  left  the  table  before  I  had  swallowed  a 
mouthful.  While  the  servants  were  taking  away 
the  candles  Vernaux  came  up  to  me  and  said: 
'You  did  not  notice  the  lady  in  the  low-necked  dress 
who  was  sitting  next  you.  It  was  Melanie. 
Look.' 

**And  through  the  door  he  pointed  to  shoulders 
flooded  with  a  white  light,  out  in  the  darkness  under 
the  trees.  I  leapt  out,  I  rushed  in  pursuit  of  the 
charming  form.  This  time  I  caught  it  up,  I  touched 
it.  For  one  moment  I  felt  a  delicious  throbbing 
beneath  my  fingers.  But  she  slipped  from  my  arms 
and  I  was  embracing  briars. 

"That  was  my  dream." 

"Truly  your  dream  was  sad,"  said  Monsieur  Ber- 
geret,  "to  quote  the  simple  Stratonice : 

"  'A  vision  of  oneself  may  arouse  no  little 
disgust.'  " 


II 

THE  LAW  IS  DEAD  BUT  THE  JUDGE 
IS  LIVING 

^  FEW  days  later,"  said  Jean  Mar- 
teau,  "1  happened  to  be  lying  in  a 
thicket  of  the  Bois  de  Vincennes. 
I  had  eaten  nothing  for  thirty-six 
hours." 

Monsieur  Goubin  wiped  his  eyeglasses.  His 
eyes  were  kind  but  his  glance  was  keen.  He  looked 
hard  at  Jean  Marteau  and  said  to  him  reproach- 
fully: 

"What?  Again  you  had  eaten  nothing  for 
twenty-four  hours?" 

"Again,"  replied  Jean  Marteau,  "I  had  eaten 
nothing  for  twenty-four  hours.  But  I  was  wrong. 
One  ought  not  to  go  without  food.  It  is  not  right. 
Hunger  should  be  a  crime  like  vagrancy.  But  as 
a  matter  of  fact  the  two  offences  are  regarded  as 
one  and  the  same;  article  269  inflicts  from  three 
to  six  months'  imprisonment  on  those  who  lack 
means  of  subsistence.  Vagrancy,  according  to  the 
code,  is  the  condition  of  vagrants,  of  vagabonds, 
persons  without  any  fixed  dwelling  or  means  of  sub- 

196 


JEAN  MARTEAU  197 

sistence,  who  exercise  no  specific  trade  or  profes- 
sion.    They  are  great  criminals," 

"It  is  curious,"  said  Monsieur  Bergeret,  "that  the 
state  of  vagrancy,  punishable  by  six  months'  impris- 
onment and  ten  years'  police  supervision,  is  pre- 
cisely the  same  as  that  in  which  the  good  St.  Francis 
placed  his  companions  at  St.  Mary  of  the  Angels 
and  the  daughters  of  St.  Clare.  If  St.  Francis  of 
Assisi  and  St.  Anthony  of  Padua  came  to  preach  in 
Paris  to-day  they  would  run  great  risk  of  being 
clapped  into  the  prison  van  and  carried  off  to  the 
police  court.  Not  that  I  mean  to  denounce  to  the 
authorities  the  mendicant  monks  who  now  swarm 
among  us.  They  possess  means  of  livelihood;  they 
exercise  all  manner  of  trades." 

"They  are  respectable  because  they  are  rich," 
said  Jean  Marteau.  "It  is  only  the  poor  who  are 
forbidden  to  beg.  Had  I  been  discovered  beneath 
my  tree  I  should  have  been  thrown  into  prison  and 
that  would  have  been  justice.  Possessing  nothing, 
I  was  assumed  to  be  the  enemy  of  property;  and 
it  Is  just  to  defend  property  against  its  enemies. 
The  august  task  of  the  judge  Is  to  assure  to  every 
man  that  which  belongs  to  him,  to  the  rich  his 
wealth,  to  the  poor  his  poverty." 

"I  have  reflected  on  the  philosophy  of  law,"  said 
Monsieur  Bergeret,  "and  I  have  perceived  that  the 


198  JEAN  MARTEAU 

whole  structure  of  social  justice  rests  upon  two 
axioms:  robbery  is  to  be  condemned:  the  result  of 
robbery  is  to  be  respected.  These  are  the  princi- 
ples which  assure  the  security  of  individuals  and 
maintain  order  in  the  State.  If  one  of  these  tute- 
lary principles  were  to  be  disregarded  the  whole  of 
society  would  fall  to  pieces.  They  were  established 
in  the  beginning  of  time.  A  chief  clothed  in  bear- 
skin, armed  with  an  axe  of  flint  and  with  a  sword 
of  bronze,  returned  with  his  comrades  to  the  stone 
entrenchments,  wherein  were  enclosed  the  children 
of  the  tribe  and  the  troops  of  women  and  of  rein- 
deer. They  brought  back  with  them  youths  and 
maidens  from  the  neighbouring  tribe  and  stones 
fallen  from  the  sky,  which  were  precious  because 
out  of  them  could  be  made  swords  which  would  not 
bend.  The  chief  ascended  a  hillock  in  the  middle 
of  the  enclosure  and  said:  'These  slaves  and  this 
iron,  which  I  have  taken  from  men  weak  and  con- 
temptible are  mine.  Whosoever  shall  lay  hands 
upon  them  shall  be  struck  down  by  my  axe.'  Such 
is  the  origin  of  law.  Its  spirit  is  ancient  and  bar- 
barous. And  it  is  because  justice  is  the  ratification 
of  all  injustice  that  it  reassures  every  one. 

"A  judge  may  be  benevolent,  for  men  are  not  all 
bad;  the  law  cannot  be  benevolent  because  it  is 
anterior  to  all  ideas  of  benevolence.     The  changes 


JEAN  MARTEAU  199 

which  have  been  introduced  into  it  down  the  ages 
have  not  altered  its  original  character.  Jurists 
have  rendered  it  subtle,  but  they  have  left  it  bar- 
baric. Its  very  ferocity  causes  it  to  be  respected 
and  regarded  as  august.  Men  are  given  to  worship 
malevolent  gods,  and  that  which  is  not  cruel  seems 
to  them  not  worth  their  adoration.  The  judged 
believe  in  the  justice  of  laws.  Their  morality  is 
that  of  the  judges;  both  one  and  the  other  believe 
that  a  punished  action  is  penal.  In  the  police  court 
or  at  the  assizes  I  have  often  been  touched  to  see 
how  the  accused  and  the  judge  agree  perfectly  in 
their  ideas  of  good  and  evil.  They  have  the  same 
prejudices  and  a  common  morality." 

"It  cannot  be  otherwise,"  said  Jean  Marteau. 
"A  poor  creature  who  has  stolen  from  a  shop  win- 
dow a  sausage  or  a  pair  of  shoes  has  not  on  that 
account  looked  deeply  and  boldly  into  the  very 
origin  of  law  and  the  foundation  of  justice.  And 
those  who  like  ourselves  are  not  afraid  to  behold 
in  the  origin  of  Codes  a  sanction  of  violence 
and  iniquity,  are  incapable  of  stealing  a  half- 
penny." 

"But  after  all,"  said  Monsieur  Goubin,  "there 
are  just  laws." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  inquired  Jean  Marteau. 

"Monsieur  Goubin  is  right,"  said  Monsieur  Ber- 


200  JEAN  MARTEAU 

gcrct.  "There  are  just  laws.  But  law  having  been 
instituted  for  the  defence  of  society,  in  its  spirit 
cannot  be  more  equitable  than  that  society.  As 
long  as  society  is  founded  upon  injustice  the  func- 
tion of  laws  will  be  to  defend  and  maintain  that 
injustice.  And  the  more  unjust  they  are  the 
worthier  of  respect  they  will  appear.  Notice  also 
that,  ancient  as  most  of  them  are,  they  do  not  ex- 
actly represent  present  unrighteousness  but  past  un- 
righteousnesses which  is  ruder  and  crasser.  They 
are  monuments  of  the  Dark  Ages  which  have  lin- 
gered on  into  brighter  days." 

"But  they  are  being  improved,"  said  Monsieur 
Goubin. 

"They  are  being  improved,"  said  Monsieur  Ber- 
geret.  "The  Chamber  and  the  Senate  work  at 
them  when  they  have  nothing  else  to  do.  But  the 
heart  of  them  remains;  and  it  is  bitter.  To  be 
frank,  I  should  not  greatly  fear  bad  laws  if  they 
were  administered  by  good  judges.  The  law  is 
unbending,  it  is  said,  I  do  not  believe  it.  There 
is  no  text  which  may  not  receive  various  interpreta- 
tions. The  law  is  dead.  The  magistrate  is  living: 
he  possesses  this  great  advantage  over  the  law. 
Unfortunately  he  seldom  uses  it.  Generally  he 
schools  himself  to  be  colder,  more  insensible,  more 
dead  than  the  code  he  applies.     He  is  not  human; 


JEAN  MARTEAU  201 

he  knows  no  pity.  In  him  the  caste  spirit  stifles  all 
human  sympathy." 

"I  am  only  speaking  now  of  honest  judges." 

"They  are  in  the  majority,"  said  Monsieur 
Goubin. 

"They  are  in  the  majority,"  replied  Monsieur 
Bergeret,  "if  we  refer  to  common  honesty  and 
every-day  morals.  But  is  an  approach  to  common 
honesty  sufficient  equipment  for  a  man  who,  with- 
out falling  into  error  or  abuse  has  to  wield  the 
enormous  power  of  punishing?  A  good  judge 
should  possess  at  once  a  kind  heart  and  a  philo- 
sophic mind.  That  is  much  to  ask  from  a  man  who 
has  his  way  to  make  and  is  determined  to  win  ad- 
vancement in  his  profession.  Leaving  out  of  ac- 
count the  fact  that  if  he  displays  a  morality  superior 
to  that  of  his  day  he  will  be  hated  by  his  fellows 
and  will  arouse  universal  indignation.  For  we  con- 
demn as  immoral  all  morality  which  is  not  our  own. 
All  who  have  introduced  any  novel  goodness  into 
the  world  have  met  with  the  scorn  of  honest  folk. 
That  is  what  happened  to  President  Magnaud. 

"I  have  his  judgments  here,  collected  in  a  little 
volume  with  commentaries  by  Henri  Leyret. 
When  these  judgments  were  pronounced  they  pro- 
voked the  indignation  of  austere  magistrates  and 
virtuous  legislators.     They  are  stamped  with  noble 


202  JEAN  MARTEAU 

thoughts  and  tender  kindness.  They  are  full  of 
pity,  they  are  human,  they  are  virtuous.  In  the 
Law  Courts  President  Magnaud  was  thought  not 
to  have  a  judicial  mind,  and  the  friends  of  Monsieur 
Meline  accused  him  of  lacking  respect  for  property. 
And  it  is  true  that  the  considerations  on  which  the 
judgments  of  President  Magnaud  repose  are  sin- 
gular, for  at  every  line  one  meets  the  thoughts  of  an 
independent  mind  and  the  sentiments  of  a  generous 
heart." 

Taking  from  the  table  a  little  crimson  volume, 
Monsieur  Bergeret  turned  over  the  pages  and  read: 

"Honesty  and  delicacy  are  two  virtues  infinitely 
easier  to  practise  when  one  lacks  nothing  than  when 
one  is  destitute  of  everything." 

"That  which  cannot  he  avoided  ought  not  to  he 
punished.** 

"In  order  to  judge  equitably  the  crime  of  the  poor 
the  judge  should  for  the  moment  forget  his  oxvn 
well-being,  in  order  as  far  as  possible  to  place  him- 
self  in  the  sad  situation  of  a  being  whom  every  one 
has  deserted." 

"In  his  interpretation  of  the  law  the  judge  should 
not  merely  bear  in  mind  the  special  case  which  is 


JEAN  MARTEAU  203 

submitted  to  him,  he  should  take  into  consideration 
the  wider  consequences  for  good  or  for  evil  which 
his  sentence  may  involve" 

"It  is  the  workman  alone  who  produces  and  who 
risks  his  health  or  his  life  for  the  exclusive  profit 
of  his  master,  who  endangers  nothing  hut  his 
capital." 

"I  have  quoted  almost  haphazard,"  added  Mon- 
sieur Bergeret,  closing  the  book.  "These  are  novel 
words.     They  are  the  echo  of  a  great  soul." 


MONSIEUR  THOMAS 


MONSIEUR  THOMAS 


ONCE  knew  an  austere  judge.  His 
name  was  Thomas  de  Maulan. 
He  was  a  country  gentleman. 
During  the  seven  years  ministry  of 
Marshal  MacMahon  he  had  be- 
come a  magistrate  in  the  hope  that  one  day  he  would 
administer  justice  in  the  king's  name.  He  had  prin- 
ciples which  he  believed  to  be  unalterable,  having 
never  attempted  to  examine  them.  As  soon  as  one 
examines  a  principle  one  discovers  something  be- 
neath it  and  perceives  that  it  was  not  a  principle 
at  all.  Both  his  religious  and  his  social  principles 
Thomas  de  Maulan  kept  outside  the  range  of  his 
curiosity. 

He  was  judge  in  the  court  of  first  instance  in 

the  little  town  of  X ,  where  I  was  then  living. 

His  appearance  inspired  esteem  and  even  a  certain 
sympathy.  His  figure  was  tall,  thin,  and  bony,  his 
face  was  sallow.  His  extreme  simplicity  gave  him 
a  somewhat  distinguished  air.  He  liked  to  be 
called  Monsieur  Thomas,  not  that  he  despised  his 
social  position,  but  because  he  considered  himself 
too  poor  to  support  it.     I  knew  enough  of  him  to 

207 


2o8  MONSIEUR  THOMAS 

recognize  that  his  appearance  was  not  deceptive  and 
that  though  weak  in  character  and  narrow  in  in- 
telligence he  had  a  noble  soul.  I  discovered  that 
he  possessed  high  moral  qualities.  But,  having  had 
occasion  to  observe  him  in  the  fulfilment  of  his 
functions  as  examining  magistrate  and  judge,  I  per- 
ceived that  his  very  uprightness  and  his  conception 
of  duty  rendered  him  cruel  and  sometimes  com- 
pletely deprived  him  of  insight.  His  extreme  piety 
caused  him  to  be  unconsciously  obsessed  by  the  ideas 
of  sin  and  expiation,  of  crime  and  punishment;  and 
it  was  obvious  that  in  punishing  criminals  he  ex- 
perienced the  agreeable  sensation  of  purifying  them. 
Human  justice  he  regarded  as  a  faint  yet  beautiful 
reflection  of  divine  justice.  In  childhood  he  had 
been  taught  that  suffering  is  good,  that  it  is  a  merit 
in  itself,  a  virtue,  an  expiation.  This  he  believed 
firmly;  and  he  held  that  suffering  is  the  due  of 
whomsoever  has  sinned.  He  loved  to  chastise. 
His  punishments  were  the  outcome  of  his  kindness 
of  his  heart.  Accustomed  to  give  thanks  to  the 
God  who,  for  his  eternal  salvation,  afflicted  him  with 
toothache  and  colic  as  a  punishment  for  Adam*s 
sin,  he  sentenced  vagrants  and  vagabonds  to  im- 
prisonment and  reparation  as  one  who  bestows  ben- 
efits. His  legal  philosophy  was  founded  upon  his 
catechism;  his  pitilessness  proceeded  from  his  di- 


MONSIEUR  THOMAS  209 

rectness  and  simplicity  of  mind.  One  could  not 
call  him  cruel.  But  not  being  sensual  neither  was 
he  sensitive.  He  had  no  precise  physical  idea  of 
human  suffering.  His  conception  of  it  was  purely 
moral  and  dogmatic.  There  was  something  mystic 
in  his  preference  for  the  system  of  solitary  confine- 
ment, and  it  was  not  without  a  certain  joyfulness 
of  heart  and  eye  that  one  day  he  showed  me  over 
a  fine  prison  which  had  recently  been  built  in  his 
district:  a  white  thing,  clean,  silent,  terrible;  cells 
arranged  in  a  circle,  and  the  warder  In  the  centre 
In  an  observation  chamber.  It  looked  like  a  labora- 
tory constructed  by  lunatics  for  the  manufacture  of 
lunatics.  And  malevolent  lunatics  Indeed  are  those 
inventors  of  the  solitary  system  who  In  order  to 
convert  a  wrongdoer  Into  a  moral  being  subject 
him  to  a  regime  which  turns  him  into  an  imbecile 
or  a  savage.  That  was  not  the  opinion  of  Mon- 
sieur Thomas.  He  gazed  with  silent  satisfaction 
on  those  atrocious  cells.  At  the  back  of  his  mind 
was  the  idea  that  the  prisoner  is  never  alone  since 
God  is  with  him.  And  his  calm,  self-satisfied  glance 
seemed  to  say:  "Here  I  have  brought  five  or  six 
persons  face  to  face  with  their  Creator  and  Sov- 
ereign Judge.  There  is  no  more  enviable  fate  in 
the  world." 

It  fell  to  this  magistrate's  lot  to  conduct  the  in- 


2IO  MONSIEUR  THOMAS 

quiry  in  several  cases,  among  others  in  that  of  a 
teacher.  Lay  and  clerical  education  were  then  at 
open  war.  The  republicans  having  denounced  the 
ignorance  and  brutality  of  the  priests,  the  clerical 
newspaper  of  the  district  accused  a  lay  teacher  of 
having  made  a  child  sit  on  a  red-hot  stove.  Among 
the  country  aristocracy  this  accusation  found  cre- 
dence. Revolting  details  were  related  and  the  com- 
mon gossip  aroused  the  attention  of  justice.  Mon- 
sieur Thomas,  who  was  an  honest  man,  would  never 
have  listened  to  his  passions,  had  he  known  them  to 
be  passions.  But  he  regarded  them  as  duties  be- 
cause they  were  religious.  He  believed  it  to  be  his 
duty  to  consider  complaints  urged  against  a  godless 
school,  and  he  failed  to  perceive  his  extreme  eager- 
ness to  consider  them.  I  must  not  omit  to  say  that 
he  conducted  the  inquiry  with  meticulous  care  and 
infinite  trouble.  He  conducted  it  according  to  the 
ordinary  methods  of  justice,  and  he  obtained  won- 
derful results.  Thirty  school  children,  persistently 
interrogated,  replied  at  first  badly,  afterwards  bet- 
ter, and  finally  very  well.  After  a  month's  exam- 
ination, they  replied  so  well  that  they  all  gave  the 
same  answer.  The  thirty  depositions  agreed,  they 
were  identical,  literally  identical,  and  these  children 
who  on  the  first  day  said  they  had  seen  nothing,  now 
declared  with  one  unfaltering  voice,  employing  ex- 


MONSIEUR  THOMAS  211 

actly  the  same  words,  that  their  little  schoolfellow 
had  been  seated  bare-skinned,  on  a  red-hot  stove. 
Monsieur  le  Juge  Thomas  was  congratulating  him- 
self on  so  satisfactory  a  result,  when  the  teacher 
proved  irrefutably  that  there  had  never  been  a  stove 
in  the  school.  Then  Monsieur  Thomas  began  to 
suspect  that  the  children  were  lying.  But  what  he 
never  perceived  was  that  he  himself  had  unwittingly 
dictated  their  evidence  and  taught  it  to  them  by 
heart. 

The  prosecution  was  nonsuited.  The  teacher  was 
dismissed  from  the  court  after  having  been  severely 
reprimanded  by  the  judge,  who  strongly  urged  him 
In  the  future  to  restrain  his  brutal  Instincts.  Out- 
side his  deserted  school  the  priest's  scholars  made  a 
hullaballoo.  And  when  he  went  out  he  was  greeted 
with  cries  of  "Ha !  ha  I  Grille-Cul  ( Roast-back) " ; 
and  stones  were  thrown  at  him.  The  Inspector  of 
Primary  Schools  being  Informed  of  the  state  of 
affairs,  drew  up  a  report  stating  that  this  teacher 
had  no  authority  over  his  pupils  and  concluding 
that  his  immediate  transference  to  another  school 
would  be  advisable.  He  was  sent  to  a  village 
where  a  dialect  was  spoken  which  he  did  not  under- 
stand. Even  there  he  was  called  Grille-Cul.  It 
was  the  only  French  term  that  was  known  there. 

During  my  intercourse  with  Monsieur  Thomas  I 


212  MONSIEUR  THOMAS 

learnt  how  all  evidence  given  before  an  examining 
magistrate  comes  to  be  uniform  in  style.  He  re- 
ceived me  in  his  room  whilst  with  the  assistance  of 
his  clerk  he  was  examining  a  witness.  I  was  about 
to  withdraw,  but  he  begged  me  to  remain,  saying 
that  my  presence  would  in  no  way  interfere  with  a 
proper  administration  of  justice. 

I  sat  down  in  a  corner  and  listened  to  the  ques- 
tions and  answers: 

"Duval,  did  you  see  the  accused  at  six  o'clock  in 
the  evening?" 

"That  is  to  say,  Monsieur  le  Juge,  my  wife  was 
at  the  window.  Then  she  said  to  me:  'There's 
Socquardot  going  by!'  " 

"His  presence  under  your  window  must  have 
struck  her  as  remarkable  since  she  took  the  trouble 
to  mention  it  to  you  particularly.  And  did  the  gait 
of  the  accused  arouse  your  suspicion?" 

"I  will  tell  you  how  it  was.  Monsieur  le  Juge. 
My  wife  said  to  me:  'There's  Socquardot  going 
by!'  Then  I  looked  and  said  'Why  yes,  it's  Soc- 
quardot!' " 

"Precisely!  Clerk,  write  down:  At  six  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  the  couple  Duval  saw  the  accused 
loafing  round  the  house  and  walking  with  a  suspi- 
cious gait." 

Monsieur  Thomas  put  a  few  more  questions  to 


MONSIEUR  THOMAS  213 

the  witness,  who  was  a  day  labourer  by  occupation : 
he  received  replies  and  dictated  to  his  clerk  their 
translation  into  judge's  jargon.  Then  the  witness 
listened  to  the  reading  of  his  evidence,  signed  it, 
bowed  and  withdrew. 

"Why,"  I  asked,  "do  you  not  record  the  evi- 
dence as  it  is  given  you  instead  of  translating  it  into 
words  never  used  by  the  witness?" 

Monsieur  Thomas  gazed  at  me  with  astonish- 
ment and  replied  calmly: 

"I  do  not  understand  your  meaning.  I  record 
the  evidence  as  faithfully  as  possible.  Every  mag- 
istrate does.  And  in  all  the  law  reports  there  is 
not  a  single  instance  of  evidence  having  been  altered 
or  distorted  by  a  judge.  If,  In  conformity  with 
the  invariable  custom  of  my  colleagues,  I  modify 
the  exact  terms  used  by  the  witnesses,  it  Is  because 
such  witnesses  as  this  Duval,  whom  you  have  just 
heard,  express  themselves  badly,  and  it  would  be 
derogatory  to  the  dignity  of  justice  to  record  in- 
correct, low  and  frequently  gross  expressions  when 
there  is  no  point  In  doing  so.  But,  my  dear  sir,  I 
think  you  fail  to  realize  the  conditions  of  a  judicial 
examination.  You  must  bear  In  mind  the  object 
of  the  magistrate  in  recording  and  classifying  evi- 
dence. It  Is  not  for  his  own  enlightenment  alone 
but  for  that  of  the  tribunal.     It  Is  not  enough  for 


214  MONSIEUR  THOMAS 

him  to  sec  the  case  clearly,  it  must  be  equally  clear 
to  the  minds  of  the  judges.  He  has  therefore  to 
bring  into  prominence  those  charges  which  arc 
sometimes  concealed  beneath  the  incoherent  or  dif- 
fuse story  of  a  witness  or  confused  by  the  ambiguous 
replies  of  the  accused.  If  it  were  to  be  registered 
without  order  or  method  the  most  convicting  evi- 
dence would  lose  its  point  and  the  majority  of  crim- 
inals would  escape  punishment." 

"But  surely,"  I  asked,  *'a  proceeding  which  con- 
sists in  fixing  the  wandering  thoughts  of  witnesses 
must  be  very  dangerous." 

"It  would  be  if  magistrates  were  not  conscien- 
tious. But  I  never  yet  met  a  magistrate  who  was 
not  deeply  conscious  of  his  duty.  And  yet  I  have 
sat  on  the  Bench  with  Protestants,  Deists  and  Jews. 
But  they  were  magistrates." 

"At  least  you  must  admit,  Monsieur  Thomas, 
that  your  method  possesses  one  disadvantage :  when 
you  read  the  written  account  of  his  evidence  to  the 
witness,  he  can  hardly  understand  it,  since  you  have 
introduced  into  it  terms  he  is  not  accustomed  to  em- 
ploy and  the  sense  of  which  escapes  him.  What 
does  your  expression  'suspicious  gait'  convey  to  the 
mind  of  this  labourer?" 

He  replied  eagerly: 

"I  have  thought  of  that,  and  against  this  danger 


MONSIEUR  THOMAS  215 

I  have  taken  the  greatest  precautions.  I  will  give 
you  an  example.  A  short  time  ago  a  witness  of  a 
somewhat  limited  intelligence  and  of  whose  morals 
I  was  ignorant,  appeared  not  to  attend  to  the  clerk's 
reading  of  the  witness's  evidence.  I  had  it  read  a 
second  time,  having  urged  the  deponent  to  give  it 
his  sustained  attention.  By  what  I  could  see  he 
did  nothing  of  the  kind.  Then  in  order  to  bring 
home  to  him  a  more  correct  appreciation  of  his  duty 
and  his  responsibility  I  made  use  of  a  stratagem.  I 
dictated  to  the  clerk  one  final  phrase  which  contra- 
dicted everything  that  had  gone  before.  I  asked 
the  witness  to  sign.  Then,  just  as  he  was  putting 
pen  to  paper,  I  seized  his  arm.  'Wretch !'  I  cried, 
'you  are  about  to  sign  a  declaration  contrary  to  the 
one  you  have  made  and  by  so  doing  to  commit  a 
crime.'  " 

"Well!  and  what  did  he  say  to  you?" 
"He  replied  piteously:     'Monsieur  le  Juge,  you 
are  cleverer  than  I,  you  must  know  best  what  I 
ought  to  write.' 

"You  see,"  added  Monsieur  Thomas,  "that  a 
judge  anxious  to  fulfil  his  function  well  can  guard 
himself  against  any  danger  of  making  a  mistake. 
Believe  me,  my  dear  sir,  judicial  error  is  a  myth." 


A  SERVANT'S  THEFT 


TO  HENRI  MONOD 


A  SERVANT'S    THEFT 

BOUT  ten  years  ago,  perhaps  more, 
perhaps  less,  I  visited  a  prison  for 
women.  It  was  an  old  chateau 
built  in  the  reign  of  Henry  IV; 
and  its  high  slate  roofs  frowned 
down  upon  a  dark  little  southern  town  on  the  banks 
of  a  ■  river.  The  governor  of  the  prison  had 
reached  the  age  of  superannuation.  He  wore  a 
black  wig  and  a  white  beard.  He  was  an  extraor- 
dinary governor.  He  had  ideas  of  his  own  and 
kindly  feelings.  He  had  no  illusions  concerning  the 
morals  of  his  three  hundred  prisoners,  but  he  did 
not  consider  them  to  be  greatly  inferior  to  the 
morals  of  any  three  hundred  women  collected  hap- 
hazard in  a  town. 

"Here  as  elsewhere  we  have  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions," his  gentle,  tired  glance  seemed  to  say. 

As  we  crossed  the  courtyard,  a  long  string  of 
prisoners  was  returning  from  a  silent  walk  and  go- 
ing back  to  the  workshops.  Many  of  them  were 
old  and  of  hard,  sullen  aspect.  My  friend  Dr. 
Cabane,  who  was  with  us,  pointed  out  to  me  that 
nearly  all  these  women  had  characteristic  physical 

219 


220  A  SERVANT'S  THEFT 

defects,  that  squinting  was  not  uncommon  among 
them,  that  they  were  degenerates  and  that  nearly 
all  were  marked  with  the  stigma  of  crime  or  at 
least  of  misdemeanour. 

The  governor  slowly  shook  his  head.  I  saw  that 
he  was  disinclined  to  admit  the  theories  of  crim- 
inologists. He  was  evidently  still  convinced  that 
in  our  social  groups  the  guilty  do  not  greatly  differ 
from  the  Innocent. 

He  took  us  to  the  workshops.  We  saw  the 
bakers,  the  laundresses  and  the  needlewomen  at 
their  tasks.  The  atmosphere  of  work  and  neatness 
imparted  almost  a  cheerful  air  to  the  place.  The 
governor  treated  the  women  kindly.  The  most 
stupid  and  the  most  perverse  failed  to  exhaust  his 
patience  and  his  benevolence.  His  opinion  was  that 
one  should  excuse  many  things  in  those  with  whom 
one  lives  and  that  one  should  not  ask  too  much  even 
from  misdemeanants  and  criminals.  Unlike  most 
persons,  he  did  not  require  thieves  and  procuresses 
to  be  perfect  because  they  were  being  punished. 
He  had  little  faith  in  the  moral  efficacy  of  punish- 
ment, and  he  despaired  of  making  his  prison  a 
school  of  virtue.  Being  far  from  the  belief  that 
persons  are  rendered  better  by  suffering,  he  spared 
these  unfortunate  women  as  much  suffering  as  pos- 
sible.    I  do  not  know  whether  he  was  religious,  but 


A  SERVANT'S  THEFT  221 

for  him  the  idea  of  expiation  had  no  moral  sig- 
nificance. 

**I  give  my  own  interpretation  to  the  rules,"  he 
said,  "before  applying  them.  I  myself  explain 
them  to  the  prisoners.  For  example,  one  rule  is 
absolute  silence.  Now  if  they  were  to  be  absolutely 
silent  they  would  become  mad  or  imbecile.  That 
such  is  the  object  of  the  rule  I  cannot  think  for  one 
moment.  I  say  to  them:  the  rule  commands  you 
to  keep  silent.  What  does  that  mean?  It  means 
that  the  wardresses  must  not  hear  you  speak.  If 
you  are  heard  you  will  be  punished;  if  you  are  not 
heard  you  will  incur  no  reproach.  You  have  not 
to  give  me  an  account  of  your  thoughts.  If  your 
words  make  no  more  sound  than  your  thoughts  then 
your  words  are  no  affair  of  mine.  Thus  admon- 
ished, they  endeavour  to  speak  without,  if  one  may 
say  so,  uttering  any  sound.  They  are  not  driven 
mad  and  the  rule  is  kept." 

I  inquired  whether  his  superiors  approved  of  his 
interpretation  of  priso'n  rules.  He  replied  that  in- 
spectors frequently  reproached  him,  and  that  then 
he  conducted  them  to  the  outer  gate  and  said: 
"You  see  this  railing;  it  is  of  wood.  If  you  con- 
fined men  here,  in  a  week's  time  there  would  not 
be  one  left.  The  idea  of  escaping  never  occurs  to 
women.     But  it  is  prudent  not  to  make  them  fu- 


222  A  SERVANTS  THEFT 

rious.  As  it  is,  prison  life  conduces  neither  to  phys- 
ical nor  to  moral  health.  I  resign  my  governorship 
if  you  subject  them  to  the  torture  of  silence." 

The  infirmary  and  the  dormitories,  which  we  vis- 
ited next,  were  in  great  white-washed  halls  which 
retained  nothing  of  their  ancient  splendour  except 
monumental  mantelpieces  in  grey  stone  and  black 
marble  surmounted  by  pompous  Virtues  in  high  re- 
lief. The  figure  of  Justice,  the  work  of  some 
Italianate  Flemish  artist  of  about  1600,  with  bare 
neck  and  hip  protruding  through  parted  drapery, 
held  suspended  from  one  stout  arm  its  unequally 
balanced  scales,  the  plates  of  which  clinked  against 
each  other  like  cymbals.  This  goddess  seemed  to 
menace  with  the  point  of  her  sword  a  little  sickly 
form  lying  on  an  iron  bedstead,  upon  which  was  a 
mattress  as  thin  as  a  folded  towel.  It  looked  like 
a  child. 

"Well!  And  are  you  better?"  asked  Dr. 
Cabane. 

"Oh !  yes,  sir,  much  better." 

And  she  smiled. 

"Come  then,  you  must  be  good  and  you  will  get 
well." 

She  looked  at  the  doctor  with  wide  eyes  full  of 
joy  and  hope. 


A  SERVANT'S  THEFT  223 

"This  little  girl  has  been  very  ill,"  said  Dr. 
Cabane. 

And  we  passed  on. 

"What  was  her  offence?" 

"It  was  no  mere  offence,  it  was  a  crime." 

"Ah  I" 

"Infanticide."     ' 

At  the  end  of  a  long  corridor,  we  entered  an  al- 
most cheerful  little  room,  furnished  with  cupboards 
and  with  windows  which,  devoid  of  iron  bars, 
looked  on  to  the  country.  Here  a  very  pretty 
young  woman  was  writing  at  a  desk.  Standing 
near  her  another  with  a  good  figure  was  looking  for 
a  key  in  a  bunch  hanging  from  her  waist.  I  might 
have  taken  them  for  the  governor's  daughters.  He 
informed  me  that  they  were  two  prisoners. 

"Did  you  not  notice  that  they  wear  prisoner's 
dress?" 

I  had  not  noticed  it,  doubtless  because  they  did 
not  wear  it  like  the  others. 

"Their  dresses  are  better  made  and  they  wear 
smaller  caps  which  show  their  hair." 

"It  is  very  difficult,"  replied  the  old  governor, 
"to  prevent  a  woman  showing  her  hair  when  it  is 
beautiful.  These  two  are  subject  to  the  ordinary 
regulations  and  compelled  to  work." 


224  A  SERVANT'S  THEFT 

"What  arc  they  doing?" 

"One  is  keeper  of  the  records  and  the  other  is 
librarian." 

There  was  no  need  to  ask:  their  offences  were 
crimes  of  passion.  The  governor  made  no  secret 
that  he  preferred  criminals  to  misdemeanants. 

"I  know  some  criminals,"  he  said,  "who  are  as 
it  were  aloof  from  their  crime.  It  was  a  flash  in 
their  life.  They  are  capable  of  straightforward- 
ness, courage  and  generosity.  I  could  not  say  as 
much  for  my  thieves.  Their  mediocre  and  com- 
monplace wrongdoing  is  woven  into  the  very  tissue 
of  their  existence.  They  are  incorrigible.  And 
the  baseness  which  was  the  cause  of  their  misde- 
meanour reveals  itself  over  and  over  again  in  their 
conduct.  The  penalty  imposed  on  them  is  rela- 
tively light,  and,  as  they  have  little  sensibility  either 
physical  or  moral,   they  generally  bear  it  easily." 

"But  it  does  not  follow,"  he  added  quickly,  "that 
these  unhappy  creatures  are  unworthy  of  pity  and 
do  not  deserve  to  have  an  interest  taken  in  them. 
The  longer  I  live  the  more  clearly  do  I  see  that 
the  so-called  criminal  is  in  reality  merely  unfor- 
tunate." 

He  took  us  into  his  room  and  told  a  warder  to 
bring  him  prisoner  503. 

"I  am  going  to  show  you  something,"  he  said, 


A  SERVANT'S  THEFT  225 

"which  I  entreat  you  to  believe  has  not  been  ar- 
ranged purposely  for  you ;  it  will  inspire  you  doubt- 
less with  some  novel  reflections  on  lawbreaking  and 
Its  punishment.  What  you  are  about  to  see  and 
hear  I  have  seen  and  heard  a  hundred  times  in  my 
life." 

A  prisoner  accompanied  by  a  wardress  entered 
the  room.  She  was  a  young  peasant  girl,  rather 
pretty,  sweet  and  simple  looking. 

"I  have  some  good  news  for  you,"  said  the  gov- 
ernor. "The  President  of  the  Republic,  having 
been  told  of  your  good  conduct,  remits  the  re- 
mainder of  your  sentence.  You  will  be  liberated 
on  Saturday." 

She  was  listening  with  her  mouth  half  open,  her 
hands  clasped  below  the  waist.  But  she  was  not 
quick  to  grasp  ideas. 

"Next  Saturday  you  will  leave  this  place.  You 
will  be  free." 

This  time  she  understood,  her  hands  rose  in  a 
gesture  of  distress,  her  lips  trembled. 

"Is  it  true  that  I  must  go  away?  Then  what 
will  become  of  me?  Here  I  was  fed,  clothed  and 
everything.  Could  you  not  tell  the  good  gentleman 
that  it  is  better  for  me  to  stay  where  I  am?" 

Gently  but  firmly  the  governor  showed  her  that 
she  could  not  refuse  the  mercy  shown  her;  then  he 


226  A  SERVANT'S  THEFT 

informed  her  that  on  her  departure  she  would  re- 
ceive a  certain  sum,  ten  or  twelve  francs. 

She  went  out  weeping. 

I  inquired  what  she  had  done. 

He  turned  over  a  register. 

"503.  She  was  servant  in  a  farmhouse.  .  .  . 
She  stole  a  petticoat  from  her  mistress.  ...  A 
theft  committed  by  a  servant.  .  .  .  On  such  of- 
fences, you  must  know,  the  law  is  very  severe." 


EDMEE,  OR  CHARITY  WELL 
BESTOWED 


TO  H.  HARDUIN 


EDMEE,  OR  CHARITY  WELL 
BESTOWED 

ORTEUR,  the  founder  of  I'Etoile, 
the  political  and  literary  editor  of 
La  Revue  Nationale  and  of  Le 
Nouveau  Steele  Illustre,  Horteur, 
having  received  me  in  his  editorial 
room,  from  the  depths  of  his  editorial  arm-chair 
addressed  me  thus : 

"My  good  Martean,  write  me  a  story  for  the 
special  number  of  Le  Nouveau  Steele.  Three  hun- 
dred lines  for  New  Year's  Day.  Something  amus- 
ing with  a  high  society  atmosphere." 

I  told  Horteur  that  that  was  not  in  my  line,  at 
least  not  in  the  sense  In  which  he  understood  It,  but 
that  I  was  prepared  to  write  him  a  story. 

"I  should  like  it  to  be  entitled,"  he  said,  "a  tale 
for  the  rich." 

"I  should  prefer  a  tale  for  the  poor." 
"That  Is  what  I  mean.     A  tale  to  Inspire  the 
rich  with  pity  for  the  poor." 

"But  that  Is  precisely  what  I  object  to.     I  do 
not  want  the  rich  to  have  pity  on  the  poor." 
"Curious!" 

229 


230       CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED 

"No,  it  is  not  curious,  but  scientific.  In  my 
opinion  the  pity  of  the  rich  for  the  poor  is  an  insult 
and  a  denial  of  human  brotherhood.  If  you  wish 
me  to  address  the  rich  I  shall  say:  'Spare  the  poor 
your  pity:  they  have  no  use  for  it.  Wherefore  pity 
and  not  justice?  You  have  an  account  with  them. 
Settle  it.  This  is  no  question  of  sentiment.  It  is 
a  matter  of  ec6nomics.  If  that  which  you  arc 
pleased  to  give  them  is  calculated  to  prolong  their 
poverty  and  your  wealth,  the  gift  is  iniquitous  and 
the  tears  you  mingle  with  it  will  not  render  it  just. 
"You  must  make  restitution,"  as  the  attorney  said 
to  the  judge  after  good  Brother  Maillard's  sermon. 
You  give  alms  in  order  to  avoid  making  restitution. 
You  give  a  little  in  order  to  keep  much,  and  you 
gloat  over  it.  For  a  like  reason  the  tyrant  of 
Samos  threw  his  ring  into  the  sea.  But  the  Neme- 
sis of  the  gods  declined  to  receive  the  offering.  A 
fisherman  brought  back  the  tyrant  his  ring  in  a 
fish's  belly.  And  Polycrates  was  despoiled  of  all  his 
wealth.'  " 

"You  are  joking." 

''I  am  not  joking.  I  want  to  make  the  rich 
understand  that  they  are  benevolent  on  the  cheap, 
that  their  generosity  costs  them  little,  that  they  only 
make  the  creditor  curl  his  lip,  and  that  such  is  not 


CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED      231 

the  way  to  conduct  business.  It  Is  an  opinion  which 
may  be  of  use  to  them." 

"And  these  are  the  ideas  you  propose  to  express 
in  Le  Nouveau  Steele  in  order  to  increase  the  circu- 
lation !    Not  a  bit  of  it  my  friend !    Not  a  bit  of  it !" 

"Why  do  you  insist  on  the  rich  man  assuming 
towards  the  poor  an  attitude  different  from  that 
which  he  assumes  towards  the  rich  and  powerful? 
He  pays  the  rich  what  he  owes  them,  and  if  he  owe 
them  nothing  he  pays  them  nothing.  That  is  hon- 
est. If  he  be  honest  let  him  do  the  same  for  the 
poor.  And  do  not  say  that  the  rich  owe  the  poor 
nothing.  I  do  not  believe  that  a  single  rich  man 
thinks  so.  It  Is  upon  the  extent  of  the  debt  that 
opinions  begin  to  differ.  And  no  one  Is  in  a  hurry 
to  solve  the  problem.  It  is  thought  better  to  leave 
the  matter  vague.  Every  one  Is  aware  that  he  is 
In  debt.  But  what  he  owes  Is  uncertain,  and  so 
from  time  to  time  a  little  Is  paid  on  account.  That 
is  called  philanthropy,  and  it  Is  profitable." 

"But,  my  dear  fellow,  there  is  no  common  sense 
In  what  you  have  been  saying.  Possibly  I  am  more 
of  a  Socialist  than  you,  but  I  am  practical.  To  re- 
lieve suffering,  to  prolong  a  life,  to  redress  some 
particle  of  social  injustice  is  to  attain  a  result. 
The  little  good  one  does  Is  at  any  rate  done.     It 


232       CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED 

is  not  everything  but  it  is  something.  If  the  story 
I  ask  you  to  write  goes  home  to  the  hearts  of  a 
hundred  of  my  rich  subscribers  and  induces  them 
to  give  it  will  be  so  much  won  from  evil  and  suffer- 
ing. Thus  little  by  little  the  lot  of  the  poor  is  ren- 
dered bearable." 

"Is  it  good  for  the  lot  of  the  poor  to  be  bearable? 
Poverty  is  indispensable  to  wealth  and  wealth  to 
poverty.  These  two  evils  beget  one  another  and 
foster  one  another.  The  condition  of  the  poor 
does  not  need  to  be  improved,  but  to  be  suppressed. 
I  will  not  encourage  the  rich  to  give  alms,  because 
their  alms  are  poisoned,  because  their  alms  do  good 
to  the  giver  and  harm  to  the  receiver,  because  in 
short,  wealth  being  itself  hard  and  cruel  it  must  not 
put  on  the  deceitful  appearance  of  kindness.  Since 
you  wish  me  to  write  a  story  for  the  rich,  I  will  say 
to  them:  'Your  poor  are  your  dogs  whom  you  feed 
in  order  that  they  may  bite.  Your  bedesmen  be- 
come the  hounds  of  the  propertied  classes  who  bay 
at  the  proletariat.  The  rich  give  only  to  those  who 
ask.  The  workers  ask  nothing,  and  they  receive 
nothing.'  " 

"But  the  infirm,  the  aged  and  the  or- 
phaned? .  .  ." 

"They  have  the  right  to  live.  For  them  I  would 
not  excite  pity,  I  would  appeal  to  justice." 


CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED       233 

"All  this  is  mere  theorizing!  To  return  to 
reality,  you  will  write  me  a  New  Year's  Story, 
and  you  may  introduce  a  suggestion  of  Socialism. 
Socialism  is  quite  fashionable.  It  is  even  distinc- 
tion. Of  course  I  am  not  referring  to  the  Socialism 
of  Guesde  or  of  Jaures,  but  to  a  moderate  Socialism 
such  as  men  of  the  world  intelligently  and  rightly  , 
oppose  to  collectivism.  Have  some  young  faces 
in  your  story.  It  will  be  illustrated  and  readers 
like  pictures  to  be  pleasing.  Bring  a  young  girl  on 
the  scene,  a  charming  young  girl.  It  will  not  be 
difficult." 

"No,  it  is  not  difficult." 

"Could  you  not  introduce  a  little  chimney-sweep  ? 
I  have  an  illustration  ready,  a  coloured  engraving, 
which  represents  a  young  girl  giving  alms  to  a  little 
chimney-sweep  on  the  steps  of  the  Madeleine. 
This  would  be  an  opportunity  for  using  it.  .  .  .  It 
is  cold,  the  snow  is  falling:  the  pretty  girl  is  drop- 
ping a  coin  into  the  chimney-sweep's  hand.  Can  you 
see  it?" 

"I  see  it." 

"You  will  develop  that  theme." 

"I  will  develop  it.  The  little  sweep,  in  a  trans- 
port of  gratitude  throws  his  arms  round  the  girl's 
neck.  She  happens  to  be  the  daughter  of  the  Comte 
de  Linotte.     He  gives  her  a  kiss,  imprinting  on  the 


234       CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED 

charming  child's  cheek  a  little  round  O  of  soot.  A 
perfectly  enchanting  little  O,  quite  round  and  quite 
black.  He  loves  her.  Edmee  (her  name  is 
Edmee)  is  not  indifferent  to  so  sincere  and  in- 
genuous an  attachment.  ...  I  fancy  the  idea  is 
sufficiently  pathetic." 

"Yes.  You  will  be  able  to  make  something  of 
it." 

"You  encourage  me  to  continue.  On  her  return 
to  her  sumptuous  home  in  the  Boulevard  Males- 
herbes,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Edmee  is  re- 
luctant to  wash  her  face:  she  would  like  to  preserve 
the  imprint  of  those  lips  on  her  cheek.  Meanwhile 
the  little  sweep  has  followed  her  to  her  door. 
Rapt  in  ecstasy  he  stands  beneath  the  adorable 
young  girl's  window.  .  .  .  Will  that  do?" 

"Why,  yes!" 

"I  continue.  The  next  morning,  lying  on  her 
little  white  bed,  Edmee  sees  the  little  sweep  coming 
down  the  chimney.  Without  any  ado  he  throws 
himself  on  the  charming  child  and  covers  her  with 
little  round  O's  of  soot.  I  omitted  to  tell  you  that 
he  is  extremely  handsome.  While  thus  delightfully 
occupied  he  is  surprised  by  the  Comtesse  de  Linotte. 
She  screams,  she  calls  for  help.  But  so  absorbed  is 
he  that  he  neither  sees  nor  hears." 

"My  dear  Marteau.  .  .  ." 


CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED       235 

"So  absorbed  is  he  that  he  neither  sees  nor  hears. 
The  Comte  hastens  into  the  room.  He  has  the  soul 
of  a  true  aristocrat.  He  takes  up  the  little  sweep 
by  the  seat  of  his  breeches  .  .  .  and  throws  him 
out  of  the  window " 

"My  dear  Marteau.  .  .  ." 

"I  hasten  to  conclude.  .  .  .  Nine  months  later 
the  little  sweep  married  the  high-born  maiden. 
And  it  was  high  time  too.  Such  was  the  result  of 
charity  well  bestowed." 

"My  dear  Marteau,  you  have  amused  yourself 
long  enough  at  my  expense." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,  I  must  finish.  Having  married 
Mademoiselle  de  Linotte,  the  little  sweep  became  a 
papal  count  and  was  ruined  on  the  Turf.  To-day 
he  is  a  stove  dealer  at  Montparnasse  in  the  Rue  de 
la  Gaite.  His  wife  keeps  his  shop  and  sells  stoves 
at  eighteen  francs  apiece  payable  in  eight  months." 

"My  dear  Marteau  it  isn't  the  least  bit  funny." 

"Beware,  my  dear  Horteur.  What  I  have  just 
told  you  is  really  Lamartine's  Chute  d'un  Ange  and 
Alfred  de  Vigny's  Eloa.  And,  taking  it  all  round, 
it  is  better  than  your  tearful  tales,  which  make  folk 
believe  that  they  are  very  kind  when  they  are  not 
kind  at  all,  that  they  do  good  when  they  do  nothing 
of  the  sort,  that  it  is  easy  for  them  to  be  benevolent 
when  it  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world.     My 


236       CHARITY  WELL  BESTOWED 

story  is  moral.  Moreover  it  is  optimistic  and  ends 
well.  For,  in  her  shop  in  the  Rue  de  la  Gaite, 
Edmee  found  the  happiness  which  in  amusements 
and  festivities  she  would  have  sought  in  vain,  had 
she  been  married  to  a  diplomat  or  an  officer.  .  .  . 
My  dear  editor,  are  we  agreed:  Will  you  have 
Edmee,  or  Charity  well  Bestowed  for  the  Nouveau 
Steele  Illustre?" 

"You  ask  me  that  in  all  seriousness?  .  .  ." 

"In  all  seriousness  I  ask  you.  If  you  will  not 
have  my  story,  I  will  publish  it  elsewhere." 

"Where?" 

"In  some  high  class  journal." 

"I  dare  you  to  do  so." 

"You  will  see." 

The  Figaro,  under  the  editorship  of  Monsieur  dc 
Rodays,  published  Edmee  ou  La  Charite  bein 
placee.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  offered  as  a  New 
Year's  gift  to  the  readers  of  that  paper. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Apr  3  6^ 
Od  12  64 

OCTi     1965 
PETDqW^lB. 

AUG  2  0.1968 
MAY  0  9 '81   14bAY 

M/V3181  'ECCL 


Book  Slip-15m-8. '56(5890^4)4280 


u 


College 
Library 

PQ 

2254 
C84E5W 
1922 


A  001  146  482  3 


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